


Magic in the Marks

by Mayhem21



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst fic, Background Relationships, Child Abuse, Gen, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Pre-Relationship, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, graphic description of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-11-14 12:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11208399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayhem21/pseuds/Mayhem21
Summary: Each day, he reminds himself that his sister is the most important person in the world. No matter what, she’s all that matters. Written for the RvB Angst War.





	1. Kaikaina

**Author's Note:**

> Angst War prompt: How about grif’s family growing up abusive household.
> 
> 9 chapters, possibly an epilogue as well.

He’s two years old when Mommy tells him she’s going to have a baby.

“It’s a surprise for Daddy when he gets out of jail,” she explains, rubbing a hand on her round tummy. “I bet this one will make him stay, especially if it’s not as stupid as you. Me and him are soulmates,” she adds, smirking as she juts out her arm to show off the sickly green handprint on her upper arm, “so you’ve gotta be the reason he keeps leaving.”

He doesn’t know much about Daddy, just what Mommy’s told him but he guesses that makes sense. His eyes linger on the handprint -- TV had talked about prints yesterday, the colorful, fuzzy monsters called them _Best Friend Marks_. He likes that idea. He doesn’t have any friends. Or a mark yet. But TV said he’d get his own as he grew up.

Miss Ming comes to their apartment late one night and she and Mommy are in her room all the way until the sun came up. Mommy had been screaming a lot. Not the usual screams or shouts. Different. It was scary. He hid under the bed with his ragged stuffed cat, waiting for the sounds to stop.

Just as the sun’s coming up, he hears a new sound: a _baby_. He’s seen babies on the TV. There’d been an entire episode about new babies. He’d clicked the red button on the remote when the monsters started singing about being a big brother or sister so he could watch it again. He’d watched it over and over. He wants to be a good big brother. Mommy says that will make Daddy stay when he comes home. And Daddy staying will make Mommy happy.

After a while, he gets too hungry to keep hiding. He hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before, right before Mommy had yelled at him to go get Miss Ming. The shouting had stopped so he figures it’s probably safe.

He finds an apple in the fridge. It’s a little soft and wrinkly but there aren’t too many brown spots so he takes it and sits next to the couch, his cat in his lap. If he needs to, he can run back to his room without being seen from here. But he can also see Mommy’s room. And he wants to know about the baby.

He’s almost done with the apple when Miss Ming comes out. He climbs up onto the couch and waves. She frowns at him for a moment, then walks over to her her purse, which she’d dropped on the counter when she’d arrived the night before. After a minute of digging, she pulls out a granola bar and unwraps it, then hands it to him.

_Yum._

“Your mommy is very tired,” she tells him. “It’s a lot of work having a baby. You’ll have to be a big boy and be very quiet so she and the baby can sleep. You have a little sister,” she adds after a brief pause.

“Okay,” he replies. He thinks about the TV. A Sister means dolls and tea parties and dresses unless she doesn’t like them. They don’t have any of those things yet but he guesses they’ll show up eventually. She can share his toys until she gets her own, he decides. “Can I go say hi?”

Miss Ming smiles, which makes the wrinkles on her face even _bigger_. “I can bring her here,” she tells him then turns and goes back to Mommy’s room.

He wonders if she’ll go back to working soon. He hopes not. The past few months had been fun. No scary strangers coming to the house making her scream, no brown bottles of gross stuff, no white powders or pills. They’d gone to the beach a lot; Mommy said swimming made her back hurt less. And that made her happier and nicer. She’d even been cooking food instead of just buying things to put in the microwave.

Just as he’s finishing the granola bar, Miss Ming comes back holding a pile of blankets. Is this the baby? he wonders and scrambles up on the back of the couch to see better.

“Here’s your little sister,” Miss Ming says, angling her arms so he can see into the blankets. His sister is _tiny_ , all dark skin like his and wispy brown hair. Her eyes peep open and they’re _bright blue_. “Her eyes will probably change color,” the old woman says. “Babies are often born with blue eyes. I bet they’ll turn brown like yours in a few months.”

“She’s really _small_ ,” he says in fascination.

A teeny tiny hand squirms free of the blankets, waving in the air. Without thinking, he reaches out and lets her grab his finger, pudgy fingers wrapping perfectly around the mark that had started forming there. Immediately, a wave of warmth rolls over him, just like the waves on the beach. Instantly, she goes from being his little sister to the _most important person_ he’s ever met.

He must have made some kind of sound because Miss Ming laughs suddenly and gently tugs his sister’s hand off his finger. The warm waves vanish, but before he can cry she walks around the couch and sits down.

“I thought it was unusual for a baby to be born with a soulmark,” she says. “Do you want to hold her?”

Eyes wide, he nods. He wants nothing more.

“Keep a hand under her head,” Miss Ming orders and then carefully shows him how to hold her. His hand cradles the back of her head and her eyes snap open, hands reaching out for him. As her hand wraps back around the yellow mark on his finger, the waves come back but this time, which her head in his hands, it rolls around and around. He can feel the waves coming off her and into him and then into her _from_ him.

“She’s very lucky to have her first soulmate be her big brother,” Miss Ming says with a smile. “Soulmates are special people in our lives. Some are your best friends and others could be someone you marry. It’ll be a long time before all your soulmarks show up and even longer before you meet all of them. It’s wonderful that you and your sister already have each other.”

He only vaguely hears what Miss Ming says. Right now, nothing matters besides his sister.

Sister is crawling by the time Daddy comes home. He doesn’t see him a lot; Daddy stays with Mommy in her room most of the time he isn’t gone. But that’s okay. Mommy’s happy and he keeps playing with his sister. He’s three years old now and he’s already learned how to change her diaper and give her a bath. She’s eating the mushy food from the jar Mommy gets at the dollar store so they don’t have to worry about bottles anymore. He’s started teaching her colors and shapes; she hasn’t gotten it yet but he can already tell her favorite color is blue. Which is funny because her mark on his skin is yellow; his mark, on the back of her neck, is orange.

He’s starting to worry, though. Mommy and Daddy are yelling at each other more. There are more bad, scary nights now than quiet ones. After one _big_ fight, Mommy had started working again but this time, the men are coming during the day. She drags the TV onto the balcony and he and Sister sit out there for hours watching cartoons and other stuff until she’s done working.

He wishes she’d stop working. He wants things to go back to the way they were before Daddy came home.

He’s decided he doesn’t like Daddy. But he keeps that thought buried deep so he doesn’t say it by accident. Daddy doesn’t like him; he yells and hits him sometimes. Like Mommy, he calls him stupid, useless, only good for minding the baby.

Daddy doesn’t like his sister and that _clearly_ means Daddy’s the one that’s stupid. His sister is the _best_.

Then, one night, not long after he’s turned four, Daddy and Mommy are fighting. And Daddy brings up Sister, shouting that she can’t be his -- why should he work to pay for her? The fight is _loud_ , the loudest one yet. Things are being thrown and he can’t help but shake as he pulls Sister under the bed with him. And no matter what he does, she won’t _stop crying_. Even when he puts his hand on her neck, covering his mark, and her hand on his finger and the warmth starts rolling back and forth through them, she doesn’t stop crying.

The door to their room suddenly slams open and a long arm reaches under the bed, grabbing Sister’s arm. She screams as she’s ripped away. Daddy yells and _yells and yells_ at her to stop crying and then he hits her, over and over and over. There’s an awful _crack_ and she goes quiet and he drops her on the bed then storms out. A few moments later, the front door slams. He can hear Mommy crying in the living room.

Eventually, Mommy comes into the bedroom and see Sister, lying limp on the bed, her arm crooked and bending the wrong way while she struggles to breath. Miss Ming comes over a few minutes later and they tie Sister’s arm to a wooden spoon. The old woman keeps talking about hospitals and police. But Mommy just says _Thank you_ and Miss Ming leaves.

Mommy orders him to pack their toys and clothes and an hour later, they’re on a bus leaving town.

Sister sleeps the entire time.

They end up in a new city and a new apartment. It’s smaller than the last one, with only one bedroom. He and Sister sleep on the floor and spend all day on the balcony while Mommy works.

They don’t have a TV. Miss Ming is far away so no one brings them casseroles or fruit or granola bars.

He tries to go back to teaching Sister everything he’s learned on TV but she’s forgotten everything. She doesn’t even seem to notice him sometimes, just sits staring dazed into the air. Sometimes she cries blood and whimpers than her head hurts. When he shows her their blocks and toys, she gets upset. She can’t find her favorites anymore.

The only good thing about their new home is that Daddy isn’t there anymore. Everything else is worse. Mommy works more than ever. And she’s drinking from the brown bottles again and there are pills and plants and powders in baggies hidden in the couch. Whenever Mommy eats or sniffs the things in the bags, she goes crazy. Sometimes she just lies on the couch staring at the ceiling for hours, other times she yells and throws things, attacking invisible monsters or him and Sister if they get in her way.

Against this backdrop of misery, Sister tugs his arm one day and pokes his back. “Hand,” she says, carefully enunciating. She pokes him again. He pulls his shirt up and has to twist around and around but eventually he sees that there’s a new mark on his skin, this one just below his waist. It’s big and a deep, deep red. _Miss Ming had said he’d get other marks, that there’d be other soulmates_.

Giggling, Sister lays her tiny hand on the mark. He grins and suddenly he doesn’t feel quite so alone. He has another soulmate that he’ll meet someday.

By the end of the week, the color has faded from the mark, leaving only a ghostly outline. Miss Ming had told him all about that, too, about how the color would come back when his soulmate put their hand there. He can’t wait.

A few months later, Sister is doing better. She can’t remember colors anymore but she’s starting to learn her numbers and letters. Mommy got a TV that they put on the balcony and it’s nice seeing their TV friends again.

After he turns five, another mark appears, this one deep blue: the same blue that used to be Sister’s favorite color. It’s on his arm and he’s thrilled to see another future friend.

Mommy isn’t happy. After she’s drunk out of her bottles and lit a cigarette, she sees the mark and scowls.

“What the _fuck_ is that?” she demanded, pointing at his arm. Before he can answer, she drains another bottle and drops in onto the floor with all the others with a loud _clink_. “You think you’re better than me? You think you’re special because you have more than one soulmark?”

He suddenly remembers that Mommy only has one. That the TV said most people had four or five. Something about her anger is different, scarier than before. She grabs his hand and drags him forward so she can examine the mark.

“You’re the reason I lost my soulmate,” she hissed, swaying and slurring her words. Her hand falls on her lighter and her face twists into something darker. “You drove him away. _Why should you get to be happy when I’m not?_ ”

The lighter clicks. And everything turns to fire.

Sister shakes him awake hours later. It’s dark; Mommy’s asleep on the couch, in that deep sleep that they can’t wake her from. His arm hurts like nothing ever has. Sister tugs and tugs and he stumbles to his feet and they make their way to the bathroom. Under the cold yellow light, he can see that the mark is gone, burned away. It hurts, it’s hot, so hot. His sister helps him pull off his clothes and he shivers as he sits in the cold water. But gradually, the cold eats away at the pain, dulls the burning heat. He can’t sleep that night, lying on the floor of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, his arm splayed out across the cheap linoleum. Sister huddles against his side, her own dreams making her twitch and whimper.

Mommy stumbles into the bathroom the next morning and stares down at them in horror. Dropping to her knees beside him, she cries and cries, then scoops him up and carries him out to the couch. She goes out and buys real bandages and popsicles and spends all day telling him she’s sorry. There are moments, though, where she shakes, whispers fearfully to herself when she thinks he can’t hear: _I destroyed a soulmark, oh God._

The burn heals. The mark doesn’t come back. Instead, there’s just scar tissue and no feeling. Things go back to the way they were… but he doesn’t trust _her_ anymore.

 ~~Mommy~~ , no, _Jezzie_ does better for while. And it’s good for Sister. She’s growing, growing, growing, getting smarter everyday even if some of her spark has vanished. He reminds himself that his sister is the _most important person_ in the world. He’d think that even if their TV friends didn’t talk a lot about how big brothers are supposed to protect their little sisters.

So when a pink mark appears on his chest and the lighter comes back out, he picks himself up off the floor and keeps going. A blue-green mark comes and goes on his arm above his elbow and that limb gets another burn scar. The bright red mark on his shoulder frightens him; it’s the same color as blood, but he grits his teeth when it too is taken from him. As the years pass, another blue-green mark, this one lighter than the other, lingers briefly on his ribs. Different hands grip his legs before the poison Jezzie drinks and eats make her take them away, light orange, yellow, and blue.

He puts up with it each time, no matter how much it hurts, because while this is happening to him, his sister’s marks are appearing and remain untouched. He likes that they’re mostly the same colors as the ones he’s lost. Seeing the same colors appear then turn translucent on his sister’s skin helps him remember what he’s lost and helps him keep going so he can make sure she never loses any of hers. Because as long as his sister is safe and whole, he’s doing everything right.

Even this new status quo, though, can’t last forever. And after a string of bad customers, Jezzie drinks hard, downs more pills than ever before. And for the first time, she sets her eyes on Sister.

He comes tearing into the room as the smell of smoke and the first scream of pain. He launches himself at Jezzie, grappling for the lighter. On the ground, half of the gray mark on his sister’s back is gone. And a new fury erupts in his mind; she’d burned away a nearly identical mark off his back a few days earlier.

The lighter finally flies out of Jezzie’s hands and she collapses on the ground, unconscious from all her poisons. The fire from the small metal device flickers, then catches on the cheap carpet. Within moments, it starts to spread.

He grabs his sister, hoists her to her feet by her armpits. She can barely stand from the pain but _there’s no time._

He has presence of mind enough to stop to retrieve Jezzie’s spare cash from behind a loose panel in the kitchen before they bolt out the door. Rain pours down outside and then water starts showering the apartment as the smoke alarms go off.

He doesn’t know if the sprinklers will be enough to stop the fire or if the fire department will arrive in time.

He doesn’t care; she touched his sister. And that’s unforgivable.

They survive their burns, although it’s not easy keeping the wounds clean living on the street. But he’s determined and just crazy enough that few are willing to mess with them. They may be small and younger than most of the homeless, but he’s capable of a ferocity few others can match. He’s going to keep his sister safe, come hell or high water.

It’s hard being on their own but after a year of scrounging in dumpsters and sleeping in whatever shelter they can hide in, a new opportunity presents itself after a failed pickpocketing attempt.

His mark had been an old man but it turns out old doesn't mean slow or stupid. Lawrence, they learn after he’s seized by the wrist and scolded, lives in a tent on the edge of a homeless camp. Despite having a pair of cataracts that turn the world yellow and fuzzy, he’s still spry and quick witted.

Over a period of a few weeks, they start visiting the old man more and more. He shares his food and tells them stories. When the rain comes, they take shelter in his small tent. Lawrence, they decide, is lonely and a little bit crazy. They’ve seen him yelling nonsense at seagulls and sometimes he looks at Sister and calls her Maggie, confusing her for some long lost relative. But he never yells, never tries to hit them. He doesn't drink or do drugs, just wanders the streets of Honolulu and visits the library and different museums free admission days.

Lawrence is an oasis of safety in their hardscrabble lives. In exchange for simple companionship -- traveling with him to his beloved museums and the library -- he teaches them to read beyond their stumbling sight words. The damp sand on the beach becomes a place to practice math and grammar. The different wings of the museums become a classroom to learn history and new languages.

And the most precious gift he gives them are new names.

Dexter, from the Latin word for right-handed, skilled. He’s always had clever hands, skilled at slipping into pockets or binding wounds. He gets even better once Lawrence shows him some old sleight of hand tricks.

Kaikaina, an old Hawaiian word that once meant younger sibling of the same gender but is more commonly used these days just for little sister. And that’s how she defines herself: she is her brother’s little sister and that fact is more important than anything else in the world. There’s no one else he’d have given up so much for and she's more than willing to do the same.

Finally, Lawrence names them both _Griffin_ , the ancient heraldic icon of courage and bravery.

Their new names break the final ties to their old life and even once Lawrence collapses from a heart attack and CPS finally catches up to them, they finally feel free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: I want to write a sequel where the BGC crew find out about and help Grif feel okay about his destroyed soulmarks. And for Simmons to learn that Grif still has his.


	2. Caboose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story continues! I thought about starting a full on sequel story but -- eh. I like the name of my Angst War fic too much to try and come up with a new one. There’s eventually going to be 6 or 8 more chapters, I think.
> 
> Please let me happy comments. I have jury duty this week and it’s a criminal case... *shivers*

Grif had made his peace with his scars a long time ago. It also helps that there’s a layer of new ones littering his torso and limbs, the bitter legacy of being a soldier in a war. As much as the wounds of that lost colony still haunt him, the months long struggle to survive while the enemy raged around him did give him a nice layer of camouflage for his missing soulmarks.

Most people get between four and six marks by the time they hit puberty. There’s a stigma, though, with having fewer marks. The best actors, the most powerful politicians, the most successful people are littered with colors; sometimes they look like a rainbow exploded all over them. So only having a few marks, or just one like his mother had, is seen as an indication of having bad character, low empathy. You’re pushed to the edges of society and expected to stay there. And that perception is remarkably static -- it’s echoed throughout the history of the human race in nearly every culture.

Starting his military career with only two visible marks had been a pain in the ass. It had taken a while for the other soldiers to notice; unfilled marks could be fiendishly hard to spot. But when you lived in each other’s back pockets, ate together, slept in the same room, and shared shitty, shitty bathrooms and showers, you eventually got a count for the number of filled and unfilled handprints that dotted the bodies of the people around you.

As far as anyone could tell, Grif had two marks. The one everyone spotted right away was his sister’s, a yellow smudge wrapped around one of his fingers where a tiny baby’s hand had gripped him. The outline of Kai’s fingers was barely visible, more an impression really, where minuscule knuckles had pressed against his skin. The second mark, only a ghostly outline, rested just below the small of his back and out of sight.

No one looked hard at scars. So no one realized that the many burn scars on his arms, legs, back and chest, were also soulmarks, destroyed by his mother’s drug and jealousy fueled rages.

To everyone else, he only had two marks. And that was fine. He’d grown up in the gutter; he was fine staying in the gutter. He didn’t need friends, wasn’t looking for a replacement family, not when his baby sister was waiting for him back in Hawaii. He’d never needed anyone else. He didn’t even particularly care if he found the person who’d flood the mark on his back deep, dark red. It was pure chance that mark hadn’t been destroyed like the others. So he treated it the exact same.

And after the colony-- well, it was hard to care about anything after that.

Simmons was the first person to crack the feeling of numbness that had overcome him in the hospital and lingered as he was sent for training in the new “Red Army”. His eyes couldn’t help but linger on the tall, ass kissing private’s maroon armor. More importantly, he feels a small flicker of fond, irritated protectiveness for the other man.

Because, despite being a brown nosing suck up, Simmons wasn’t the worst person in the world to talk to. And his random bouts of panic, while sad and pathetic, were an _excellent_ excuse to get out of work assignments. Grif might be an unlovable bastard, but he wasn’t the type to throw someone under the bus just because he could. So when the Lieutenant training their squad hauled them and Hammers into his office, he shot his mouth off and kept the LT’s attention off Simmons, who was still wobbly from his earlier bout of acrophobia. Even better, after the disastrous scouting mission that got Hammers killed, Simmons was right there next to him blowing smoke about the entire mess.

They’re side by side again on a transport soon after, being shipped out to a special assignment and he wonders, just a little bit, if Simmons' hands were the same size as the mark on his back.

He doesn’t ask. 

The canyon they end up in is boring. The CO insane. But there’s also a distinct lack of people shooting at them, no hellfire raining down from the sky, and food shows up on a regular basis. The days blur into weeks into months-- more faces show up for both teams stuck in the box canyon and an odd feeling fills his stomach.

He’d wondered about the maroon of Simmons armor, struggled to remember if it really was the exact same shade of red that had lingered briefly on his back before fading away. The pink Donut’s wearing when he returns from Medical, however, he instantly recognizes. Tucker’s aquamarine and the blue standard issue armor that surrounds Caboose are impossible to miss. And Sarge-- he’d made the connection to the red armor officers wore all the way back in training.

He pushes it down, pushes it _all away_ , because he doesn’t want it to mean what he knows it does. The marks are gone, all but Simmons’, so it doesn’t matter anymore. Really.

They get torn apart, everyone who had survived the Freelancers and the aliens and general insanity that had been Blood Gulch. And then they’re thrown back together-- minus Tucker and Donut. But Simmons and Sarge and Caboose are there. They’d survived the nightmare Washington the Freelancer Recovery Agent dragged them into and Valhalla almost feels like home when they finally drive up.

Between Sarge’s usual yammering and Simmons’ daily fussing, it almost feels like everything’s going back to normal. The only ‘Blue’ around is Caboose, who is far from being a threat, no matter what Sarge muttered on the extra slow days.

In fact, Caboose is fussing away at a personal project, to the point of forgetting to take care of himself, something Grif discovered one day after being kicked out of Red Base for disturbing the others while they upgraded Simmons’ prosthetics.

There are all sorts of random tools, parts, clothes, and trash piles littering the hallways. The kitchen is a wreck, with unwashed plates piled in the sink, spilled food on the counter, and a small but enthusiastic bug colony moving into one of the corners.

This can’t go on. Caboose may be an idiot but he didn’t deserve to live like this. And when Grif literally stumbles across the Blue flag, an idea springs into his mind.

“Hey, Blue, guess what I have?” he sang aloud, pleased with how well his voice carried.

Caboose let out a startled squeal and spun around, blocking the view of whatever it was he was working on in the small workshop. The Blue flag waved limply in the doorway, held aloft by an arm in orange armor. “Oh no,” Caboose gasped. He sprang forward only to slam into Grif’s outstretched hand as he suddenly stepped into view.

“Nuh uh,” Grif teased, grinding the heel of his hand against Caboose’s helmet. He waved the flag teasingly with his other hand. “If you want this back, you have to do what I say. And I’ve got a few things I’d like you to do.”

For once, it was nice being the one giving the orders, Grif reflected as he watched Caboose sullenly clean the base. Making sure to keep the flag close at hand (the Blue had tried several times to snatch it away but his stealth skills were… rather lacking), he dug through the cabinets in the kitchen, doing a quick but thorough inventory of all the food on hand.

Sarge had grudgingly agreed to share part of their rations with Caboose seeing as they were the reason he didn’t get supply shipments anymore. That meant Grif knew precisely how much should be on hand if Caboose was eating regular meals. And it was clear that hadn’t been happening.

Shaking his head, Grif pulled out a simple box set of cheesy noodles and dumped the contents into one of the larger bowls. A few minutes work adding water and punching a few buttons on the microwave and lunch was ready to go.

“Caboose, get in here!” he hollered towards the next room. The other soldier trudged in carrying a box of parts he’d collected from the hallway. Rolling his eyes as the microwave beeped, informing him it was done, Grif crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “Go put that shit away,” he ordered. “You’re working on the kitchen next.”

“Are-- are you _eating my food?”_ Caboose yelped. He momentarily lost his grip on the box, quickly fumbling to catch it.

“Well, it’s technically _Red Team_ food that we gave you to eat. And since you’re _not_ eating it…” he shrugged. “I guess that means I can do whatever I want with it. Now _go put that stuff away_ ,” he barked.

“But-- but--” was all the Blue soldier could sputter. He stared aghast, first at Grif, then at the bowl of noodles, then back at Grif again.

Finally, Grif gripped the edge of the Blue Flag, which he’d tucked into his pauldrons so it hung like a cape on his back, and waved it at him.

With one final whimper, Caboose ducked out of the room and disappeared, off to put away the tools he’d gathered up.

While he was gone, Grif popped the noodles back in the microwave and zapped them again. Then, he waited, head cocked to the side, for the sound of Caboose returning. Once the slow, heavy footsteps came back into hearing range, he pulled the now-steaming hot noodles out and put them on the small kitchen table and took a seat. Just as he was pulling off his helmet and gauntlets, Caboose returned.

Grif took a moment to study him. “Tell you what,” he declared in a carefully casual voice, “you’ve worked pretty hard. You’ve earned a break. Grab a plate and have some lunch.”

Abandoning his morose attitude, Caboose dug in with gusto, eating as only someone who’d forgotten to eat more often than not could. And with the fuel of the simple meal, Caboose moved with new energy as he started scrubbing the dishes and gathering up the trash. He was supervised by Grif’s critical eye until the kitchen sparkled and the bug infestation had been politely but firmly made to leave.

As Caboose hauled the last few bags to the incinerator in the basement, Grif toured the short hallways and scattered rooms that made up Blue Base. It was, of course, identical to Red Base but flipped. And thanks to several hours of hard work, it was also clean. All that was left now…

Grif slouched against the wall facing the door to the basement, waiting for the other soldier to reappear from the underground space. “You stink,” Grif drawled as Caboose stepped up off the last stair into the hallway.

“I,” Caboose declared, drawing himself up to tower over Grif, “have been working very hard while you have done nothing. I am tired of cleaning; give me back the flag.”

“Right, right, let me just--” his voice cutting off with a flamboyant gasp, Grif patted at his shoulders, left, right, then twisting around in mock confusion. “Oh, I must have put it someplace. Gosh, it’d be terrible if it was lost forever.”

Caboose’s voice cracked. “Yo-- you lost the Blue flag?”

“Eh, I’m sure it’ll turn up.” Grif gave him a critical look, head tilting to the side. “Long enough for you to take a shower. I wasn’t kidding about the stink.”

Planting his hands on his hips, Caboose managed to loom threateningly. “Fine. I will take a bath. You will find the flag. And then you’ll give it back to me!”

“Sounds like a decent plan,” Grif agreed. He’d need to make sure Caboose cleaned his armor, he mused, but he tended to do better with his personal equipment than an entire base. While he waited for Caboose to bath, Grif swung back through the kitchen and grabbed the flag off the counter he’d left it on. Then, remembering the way Caboose’s hair had been falling in his eyes all throughout lunch, he dug through the drawers until he found a pair of sharp bladed scissors.

Humming a soft pop rock tune under his breath, Grif made his way to the large communal bathroom and started peeling off some of his armor. Shedding the heavy metal plates was a relief and he twisted briefly side to side, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms as he enjoyed the increased range of motion.

“Did you remember to get a towel?” he called into the bathroom as he piled his armor in the hallway, planting his helmet down on top of the heap.

“What?” Caboose called back, confused.

That was a no, Grif knew. Shaking his head and undoing the pressure seals at his wrists, he peeled off the smooth black mesh gloves and shoved them into one of the storage compartments at his hips and started rolling up the sleeves until his forearms were bare.

Towels had been the first thing thrown into the wash and happily, they’d been moved over to the dryer and were waiting, fluffy and warm, to be used.

Returning to the bathroom, Grif threw one of the towels at Caboose as the disturbingly large man stepped out from under the shower heads protruding from the wall and continued on towards the small series of mirrors mounted over a long sink. While Caboose began to dry off, Grif hooked a stool sitting in a corner with his ankle and dragged it in front of the mirrors.

“You said you’d give me back the flag,” Caboose insisted, stepping up behind him. It was disturbing how, even without the extra height from his power armor, Caboose stood perfectly level with Grif. Naked save for the towel he was using to dry off, the heat of the shower combined with the day’s labors made his bulky muscles bulge, his pectorals and arms noticeably warm and faintly swollen. Color gleamed on his skin, aquamarine, red, yellow, pink. He looked like he could reach out and break Grif in two and after everything they’d been through, it wouldn’t have surprised him one bit.

“Yeah, still looking for that,” Grif said vaguely. “Here, lemme cut your hair. You can’t possibly be seeing clearly with that mess hanging in your eyes.” He gestured towards the stool, scissors in hand.

Caboose stiffened, the muscles in his chest and back visibly rippling as he recoiled. “I do not like haircuts,” he informed him. “I do not like having scissors next to my head.”

“I hear you,” Grif replied, nodding slightly. “But look at this. This is crazy.” Reaching forward slowly, he took hold of one of the wet coils of dark hair and pulled down. It straightened all the way to Caboose’s sturdy jaw; when released, it sprang back into its usual tight curls, dangling near his nose.

Clutching his towel to his chest, Caboose looked as miserable as he had earlier when Grif had claimed the Blue Flag. “I just got it to be long again,” he whimpered. “They took all my hair away when I was at camp.”

“Boot camp?” Grif clarified.

There was a pause. “They did give me new boots,” Caboose finally agreed.

“Right. Well, I promise not to cut it all off or shave it or anything. Just-- clean it up.” Grif gently tugged at Caboose’s elbow, pulling him towards the stool. “Come on, I used to do this for my sister all the time. I can’t do fancy cuts or anything but I can clean it up.”

“You won’t take it all away?”

“I promise.”

With a heavy sigh, Caboose dropped onto the stool. His bulky hands nervously spread his towel across his lap, fingers, digging at the rough woven cloth as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Behind him, Grif first used the second towel to squeeze as much water out of Caboose’s hair as he could; he knew from helping Kai with her hair that the small fibers in the towel would turn Caboose’s into a frizzy mess but hey. They wore armor like, ninety percent of the time anyways. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see it.

Once Caboose’s hair was, well, _drier_ , Grif shook the towel out and wrapped it around Caboose’s shoulders, eyes brushing over the faint scarring where bullets and shrapnel had slipped past his armor and the faintly glistening outline of a hand still sitting unfilled on his shoulder.

The steady rhythm of tugging a lock of curls free and cutting off the ends was familiar; as he’d told Caboose, he’d cut his sister’s hair for years. Even the cheap cuts at the rundown chain hair salons had often been more than they’d been able to afford. And Caboose, despite his nervousness, was easy to work on. He didn’t fuss like Simmons or fidget like Kai. Just watched him work in the mirror, eyes wide as he tracked every movement of the scissors.

Gradually, the tension began to drain out of Caboose and the nervousness in his eyes started to fade. Grif kept up a steady pace, fingers carefully smoothing the curls out before he found just the right spot to cut. He let his mouth wander as well, idle comments and complaints slipping effortlessly from his lips in a steady banter.

Dark curls fell to the ground like a rain of miniature corkscrews. Caboose caught one particularly long coil in his hands as it ran down his shoulder and started to play with it, stretching and relaxing his hold on the hair that had so recently been attached to him.

Unfortunately, this also prompted him to start fidgeting, his shoulders twitching as he moved his arms and his head bobbing slightly as he tried to peer down into his lap. Just like Kai, Grif sighed to himself.

“Caboose, knock it off,” he ordered, but it didn’t work. Or at least, not for long. Caboose was quickly distracted again as he caught a second lock of hair and started twisting it in with the first. “Hey, I’m going to cut your damned _ear off_ if you don’t stop moving,” Grif growled. Without thinking, he reached out with his left hand and clamped down hard on Caboose’s shoulder to hold him in place.

The touch caused Caboose to gasp, his back suddenly arching as his eyes went wide.

“Shit, did I cut you?” Grif started to jerk his hand back, pulse frantic as he looked for signs of blood.

Caboose’s hand, gigantic and powerful, instantly snapped up and seized his arm, holding it firmly in place.

For a moment, Grif only felt confusion and the faint sensation of callouses scraping against the scarring on his arm. Then--

_Caboose’s thoughts were as scattered and wild as rainfall, the impressions they left in their wake flitting too quickly be understood. No, not thoughts-- emotions, feelings, sensations-- the rain of impressions felt cool and refreshing. There was no falsehood, no pretense. And gradually, the storm that was Caboose came into focus, capable of flooding a city but also washing away ash and soot, leaving behind a soothing, peaceful balm--_

As orange blossomed on Caboose’s shoulder and blue spread unsteadily on Grif’s arm, he couldn’t suppress his sudden scream of shock and fear. The scissors went flying as he ripped his arm free, scrambling backwards so fast he stumbled and fell. He kept going, though, until his back his the wall and there was no where else to run.

Shaking, he stared down at his arm. The dark blue he remembered from his childhood, the blue of Caboose’s armor and the _damned flag_ \-- it was back. Some of it, at least. The scarring was still there, the damage of his mother’s first fit of jealous rage, and squatted like an angry bug over the handprint, marring the shape and structure of the mark with its pink, rippled and mangled skin.

This wasn’t-- _This wasn’t possible_. The mark had been _destroyed_.

A shadow suddenly loomed over him and he flinched, the memory of angry voices and hands gripping painfully tight flashed through his mind.

But suddenly, it was only Caboose, still naked and looking utterly heartbroken. Before he could make an excuse, come up with something way to _get out,_ Caboose dove down and wrapped his arms tightly around him.

“You are not alone and not broken. You are my friend and I love you because that’s what friends do,” Caboose said in a fierce voice. He buried his face in Grif’s hair, clutching tight as though the armor on his lower half wasn’t digging painfully hard into his skin. There was a moment’s hesitation and then Caboose loosed his left hand and took hold of Grif’s arm once more. His hand was upside down on the mark but the effect was the same: an endless, torrential outpouring of pure, selfless love.

It was almost too much. Grif was vaguely aware he was shaking but he couldn’t stop. This wasn’t like it was with Kai, when she curled her hand around her mark. He’d grown up with her feelings, her love--

 _This felt so different_.

The mark had been destroyed, burned off his skin-- how--

 _He’d thought he’d only ever have Kai, that he would always be cut off from the rest of the world. Broken and thrown away_.

When Caboose finally let his arm slide out of his grip, Grif realized tears were pouring down his face as he sobbed into Caboose’s neck.

“I’m glad we are best friends,” Caboose said happily into his hair.

Best friends. Just like the cartoon figures on TV used to say when he was little.

As he started to pull himself back together, Grif had a flash of understanding in what he’d read in Caboose’s emotions. Best friends, exactly that. No romance or heated passion. Just joy and friendship and--

It was exactly what he’d always pictured when he’d imagined having a pet growing up. But better because Caboose’s mind had a shape and sharpness animals lacked; he wasn’t smart by any means but his mental acuity had been damaged more than naturally limited. And he was determined not to let the wreckage of the A.I. duel that had taken place in his head slow him down in any way.

Finally, Grif straightened as best he could and scrubbed the back of his face with his hand. “I’m okay.” His voice was shaky.

“Okay,” Caboose acknowledged, slowly loosening his hold.

“You-- don’t tell anyone about this,” Grif added. He needed time to think, to understand…

“Okay,” Caboose repeated. He sat back on his heels, grinning from ear to ear.

After giving him a sharp look, Grif shook his head and reached out, tugging at one of the uncut strands. “I need to finish your hair.”

“Okay.”

“Stop saying okay.”

“... okay. That was the _last one_ ,” Caboose promised.

“Christ.” Taking a deep breath, Grif forced himself to his feet, feeling wobbly and out of sorts. He forced himself to walk back over to the stood in front of the sink, to pick the scissors off the ground, and retrieve the towel where it had landed nearby.

By the time he had everything, Caboose was back on the stool, his towel laid neatly across his lap as he waited patiently.

Grif hesitated as he prepared to drop the other towel over Caboose’s shoulders, his eyes lingering for a moment on the orange handprint on the other man’s shoulder. It was almost neon bright against that tanned skin. With a small shudder, he spread the towel out.

Before he could go back to cutting hair, Caboose reached up against snagged Grif’s wrist, carefully avoiding the blue mark on his arm as he tugged it down onto his shoulder. Even through the rough fibers, Grif could see the moment the connection the mark provided went to work. He couldn’t feel it, of course. Marks were a way to _give_ to another person, to reach out and connect.

Caboose let out a sudden indignant huff. “It’s _not_ an ugly color,” he sniffed. “It’s like Halloween and sunsets.”

Staring at him in the mirror, Grif finally shook his head and pulled his hand free. Despite himself, he couldn’t completely suppress the small smile that briefly cross his face at the unexpected compliment. “Sit up straight, for the love of God,” he instructed.

Obediently straightening his back, Caboose sat quietly while Grif went back to work. Then, “Thank you for taking care of me,” he said in a soft, sheepish voice.

“Don’t make me keep doing it,” came Grif’s immediately reply. “I won’t always be there to after morons like you.” There wasn’t quite as much heat as there would normally have been.

“Yes, you will,” Caboose countered with a grin. “Because we are best friends. For ever and ever.”


	3. Sarge

Agent Washington, Grif concluded as Valhalla vanished in the rearview mirror once more, was an _asshole_. And crazy. He’d added a new kind of crazy on top of the crazy from the _last_ time they’d seen him.

The new crazy had made him kill Donut.

The more broken than functional jeep sputtered unhappily, coughing and bellowing blue smoke. They were leaving a trail of multicolored fluids in their wake as Grif struggled to keep the vehicle pointed straight; the alignment was so fucked up his arms were already aching from keeping the steering wheel cranked around to compensate. He was also pretty sure that the body was the only thing holding the frame together, which was all kinds of messed up.

On the upside, wrestling with the jeep gave Grif something to focus on _besides_ Donut. It’d been a long time since he’d seen their old private in pink. And with Caboose’s blue handprint now illuminated on his forearm, the scarring on his chest will forever remain a mystery. Would Donut’s hand have found the destroyed mark like Caboose’s? Or was the scarring too deep?

Jezzie’s dark skills had improved the more she burned his flesh. Each attack left him with a thicker web of scarring and less and less sensation in each spot. So who was to say whether or not _any_ of his other soulmarks would come back? No, it was far more likely that Caboose’s mark was just a fluke. There would be no further bonds in the future.

All the same, there was a part of him that regretted how often he’d rebuffed Donut, rolled his eyes and pushed away his teasing, probing comments. The kid hadn’t come straight out and said it but it’d always been clear he’d figured out they had reciprocating marks, even without Grif confirming it in any way.

Now they’d never know. And it was pretty damn selfish on him, Grif realized as the Warthog let out a new shriek and lurched beneath them, to be thinking about what _he_ might have lost when Donut was--

The air erupted with a scream of metal scraping against stone and the world lurched as two of the wheels exploded. The rear axle ripped its way free and suddenly they’re rolling, flying, falling--

The ground surged into view and the air got knocked out of Grif’s lungs as he slammed down onto the dull brown rock. Moments later, another body collided with his and together they bounced and skidded across the ground until finally rolling to a stop.

As the world swims, there’s a persistent ringing in his ears. Error messages and alerts flood his HUD, screaming about armor damage and personal injury; he has a concussion and the colors in his visor suddenly take on a blue-tinge to help with the healing process.

Distantly, he felt a body moving on top of him and suddenly some of the weight pinning him down disappeared. A hand swam into view, purple-- that’s not right-- and then everything rolls and spins again and he's suddenly staring up at blue-tinted clouds.

More weight vanished from his right side after he’s eased into a sitting position. Then hands are on him again, gripping his arm and shoulder--

Another message on his HUD blinks: dislocated shoulder.

_His shoulder is shoved back into place without mercy but all he knows is the smell of gunpowder and smoke, fried food and fresh strawberries. There’s a flicker of worry, a surge of irritation, and deeply buried pride echoing through his confused head. The hand on his shoulder feels as hot as fire but there’s no burning, not this time. The smoke carries the smell hickory and cedar and a recently fired shotgun--_

The hands yanking on his arm and clutching his shoulder vanish and he’s screaming at the red-hot pain shooting through him.

“Pull it together, dirtbag,” Sarge growled as he rose to his feet. “You have two minutes to cry while I find Simmons.” Then his commanding officer stomps off without another word, already focused on finding his other wayward soldier.

Jesus _fuck_ , his shoulder _hurt_. Grif raised a shaky hand, his thoughts still rolling loose in his head, and gingerly touched his right shoulder. Pain flared as he touched the joint but it felt-- right. The medical alert had also vanished. For several long moments, he just sat, hand on his shoulder, feeling utterly confused. He can’t feel the rough textured fabric of his body suit through his gauntlets but something’s different, something’s changed…

His armor’s gone, he realizes. The heavy plates that normally cover his shoulder and arm are gone. Looking around, he spots a pile of reddish, brownish armor plates on the ground. They’re not orange but-- they’re his, right?

With sluggish hands, he reached out and picked up the pieces. They slot into place with minimal trouble; the motions are automatic and easy and don’t require he try to use his muddled head.

“Grif, get your keister over here!” Sarge bellowed from somewhere further away.

… Right, they’d been doing something.

Shaking his head, Grif pushed himself upright, legs as wobbly as a newborn’s. As he took a few staggering steps, he suddenly remembered watching Kai take her first steps. Brow furrowed with determination, she’d braced herself against the couch, tiny hands clutching the thin cushions before she let go. One chubby leg stuck forward, then the other, knees not really bending. She reached out to him, staggering and almost falling but wanting to be with him _so bad_ that she was unafraid as she reached for his outstretched hands--

“Grif! Move your useless behind!”

“Ri-right, coming!” he shouted, shaking away the stray memories. He’s not coordinated enough to run; each step jostles his shoulder until he thinks to hold his arm against his side and there’s no mistaking the low level nausea that accompanies being upright and moving. But if he’s learned anything from a lifetime of hurting, it’s how to push forward despite the pain so it doesn’t take long to find Sarge and Simmons.

The maroon armored soldier is pinned beneath the wreckage of the machine gun. Suddenly anxious, Grif glances down at the blue-tinted readout in the corner of his HUD. The lines and numbers are steady; Simmons is fine, he realized with relief. Just trapped, not injured.

“Grab that,” Sarge barked, pointing to part of the brace that had affixed the gun to the back of the Warthog. “Lift when I tell you.”

It takes several minutes to clear the wreckage off Simmons. Sarge is barking rapidfire orders and Grif is struggling to keep up, to hear and process the commands. The coordination needed to haul away metal beams and panels also seems beyond him at numerous points. Finally, sheer frustration has Sarge ordering him to go sit down while he finished the job.

“I’m genuinely surprised the jeep made it as far as it did before exploding on us,” Simmons said in a shaky voice once the last of the debris had been pulled away. “What do we do now, sir?”

“Continue on foot,” Sarge grunted as he hauled Simmons to his feet. “We need to get back to the Blues and away from Agent Washington. The sooner, the better. Grif, on your feet!” he added, turning to glare.

Hearing his name, Grif looked up, blinking behind his visor in confusion. “What?”

“I said, on your feet! We’re leaving.”

“To go swimming?”

“Swi- What are you talking about?” Simmons stared down at him in confusion.

Grif struggled to put his thoughts in order. “We-- There were strawberries. Like strawberry ice cream. They sold it at the beach.”

“You-- you smelled strawberries so you think we’re going to the beach?” Simmons and Sarge shared a look.

“And fried chicken. That’s beach food. And the beach means swimming.” It made perfect sense to him. Grif stared up at the other two men, wondering why they didn’t seem to get it.

There was a brief pause, one of Simmons’ hands shifting involuntarily to his arm where a bright red mark sat under the layers of armor. “Sarge, did-- do you think--”

“Simmons, go find Epsilon,” Sarge growled, interrupting the hesitant query. Once Simmons had given a brief affirmative reply, Sarge hurried over to Grif and crouched down in front of him. “Son, you hit your head real hard, didn’t you?” he realized with a soft sigh.

Grif blinked at the sudden influx of yellow light as Sarge reached over and pulled off his helmet. Setting it down next to his leg, Sarge took a moment to pull off his own. Reaching out, he grabbed Grif’s chin with his red armored hand and tilted it up so he could peer at his eyes. After a moment, he let out a soft _tsk_ sound. “Follow my finger,” he ordered, raising his other hand, finger pointed to the sky, then moved it slowly from side to side. Grif tried to follow it but Sarge wouldn’t let him move his head and he kept losing track...

After several failed attempts to follow Sarge’s finger on a complete pass left-to-right, his CO shook his head and released his chin. Settling back on his heels, Sarge gave him an appraising look. “Not on the arm,” Sarge muttered absently to himself. “Had my hands all over that during surgery. Which leaves the shoulder…”

Shaking his head again, Sarge undid the clasps on his left forearm and pulled off the plates covering his hand. Then, reaching down, he took hold of Grif’s hand and placed it on his wrist.

Grif stared, mystified, as Sarge sat quiet, eyes distant like he was listening to something. Finally, Sarge let go, allowing Grif’s hand to drop to the ground while he reattached his discarded armor pieces. “You’re as confused as a goat on Astroturf,” Sarge declared. “Don’t even understand what your own brain’s trying to tell you. Which can’t be too different from usual.”

“Are we going swimming now?” Grif finally asked as he watched Sarge stand back up.

“I’ll consider it,” Sarge replied shortly. Reaching down, he grabbed Grif’s helmet and shoved it back on his head, then seized his arm and hauled him upright.

The world swam around him again as Grif stood but the blue light in his HUD was a welcome relief from the piercing yellow of the world outside it.

“Simmons,” Sarge growled when the other soldier finally returned with Epsilon in hand. “Keep an eye on Grif. He’s more likely to try to check his ass or scratch his watch right now.”

“Yes, sir. He has a concussion, I take it?”

“Got it in one. Alright, men, let’s move.”

It takes a full day to reach the desert temple where they’d left Caboose and Tucker. Grif’s head doesn’t feel quite like it’s stuffed full of wool anymore but he also can’t escape the feeling that he’s missed something important. He lets the insanity of dealing with the aliens wash over him and punts Epsilon with a solid kick old Lawrence would have been proud of once he picks upon Sarge’s carefully projected statements and hidden warnings. He’s sure whatever he’s forgotten will come to him.

“Simmons, there’s another mine on your le-” Sarge called out. An explosion. Then a scream. “Well, good job finding the mine.”

“You’re almost to Epsilon,” Grif shouted in encouragement, grinning under his helmet.

In the middle of the minefield, Simmons paused as he clambered back to his feet and half-turned towards the trio of Sarge, Grif, and Caboose. His hands and arms moved, forming a rude gesture.

“I did that once,” Caboose noted brightly. “Church made me take a bath and promise not to do it again. Didn’t tell me what it meant, though.”

“Nothing nice,” Grif replied dryly.

“Oh. Okay!” Caboose fell silent, happy to be away from the aliens and standing with the two Reds. Absently, he reached out and hooked his hand around Grif’s arm, hand slotting neatly over his mark.

Startled by the gesture, Grif glanced over at the other soldier, who was now humming under his breath. He knew Caboose wasn’t feeling anything, not through the armor. Kai’s time in Blood Gulch had been sufficient for him to confirm that didn’t work. So why would he want to…

Confused, Grif turned his attention back on the minefield. The blue light concussion filter was mostly gone and his head clear enough that he had no trouble following Simmons’ progress through the minefield as he worked to retrieve Epsilon. The sharp commentary and heckling didn’t come as easy as before, though, not when he could feel the weight of Caboose’s hand tugging at his arm like a lead balloon as it began to swing forward and back.

People don’t hold his hand. Or his arm, as in this case. Sure, he’d seen plenty of couples and clusters of friends back in Hawaii hanging off each other, hands lingering over colorful marks or searching for very specific spots on shoulders and backs hidden under layers of clothing. Only Kai had ever grabbed his hand in public. Lawrence would on occasion, tugging him forward to another painting or artifact to continue an impromptu lecture, but there’d never been anything like _this_.

“Come on, Simmons, you’re moving slower than a Sunday afternoon!” Sarge suddenly bellowed. Grumbling, he glanced over at Grif and Caboose. “Even a blind man on a galloping horse could see the safe path,” he complained. The red helmet tilted forward slightly, taking in the way Caboose was lightly swinging Grif’s arm.

The blue gauntlet suddenly felt like a brand. He braced himself for the angry tirade that was sure to follow.

But--

It didn’t.

Instead of castigating him for colluding with a Blue, Sarge merely snorted and turned to stare forward once more. And then Sarge’s hand shot up and gripped his shoulder, shaking him slightly with a red gauntlet before letting go.

Why would Sarge--

Why grab his shoulder--

Grif had a sudden flash of memory--

\--of the smell of strawberries and gunpowder.

Yesterday, he realized in sudden shock. It was mostly a blur but after the crash, Sarge had reset his shoulder, grabbed him through the bodysuit-- The injury had been right where his shoulder had glowed red for a few hours when he was nine years old.

In the minefield, Simmons bent over and picked up Epsilon, then turned to start the journey back to safety.

All Grif could think was that he desperately wanted to find somewhere private where he could pull off his armor and stare at his shoulder. Was it actually possible that he would find standard issue red there peering up at him from behind the twisted mess of scar tissue? Sarge had _operated_ on him back in Blood Gulch. Surely if that was going to happen it would have been then.

But… it wasn’t considered polite to touch unfilled marks, to poke at the ghostly outlines when it wasn’t _your hand_ that belonged there. If it was meant to be, your hand would find its way there naturally. Groping at someone’s marks was… _gross_. And Sarge was so damned old fashioned… he wouldn’t have touched if he didn’t have to.

But if he somehow had another mark… They were reciprocal. He didn’t think he’d ever touched his CO’s bare skin save for that one time he’d given him CPR. If he wore red on his skin now, Sarge should have a flash of orange. So where...

Cautiously, he snuck a peek sideways. Somehow sensing the look, Sarge glanced over. Snorted. Raising his left arm, he tapped his wrist with his right hand. “When Donut and I were getting you back in armor after surgery. You were as coordinated as an octopus with brain damage,” the older man said tersely. “Move on, numbnuts.”

Grif snapped his head forward, feeling a sudden rush of heat in his cheeks. That answered that question. And that meant, he now had two new marks. Three in total, including his sister’s. Was it really possible that his mother’s wrath _hadn’t_ destroyed the soulmarks? That they were just… buried? Hidden behind burned and scarred skin?

Donut would have thought so. It was a scenario right out of one of his beloved soap operas. He’d coo and offer soothing words, sliding in a sly innuendo here and there as he reached out to touch and…

_What if nothing happened?_

A small, delicate hand pressing against his chest and nothing happened. No flash of thought or emotion, no distinctive scents, sounds, or tastes igniting his senses. Instead of warm reassurance, those blue eyes would narrow, brow furrowing in confusion. And once Donut realized how broken he was, he’d try to reassure him...

Shaking his head, Grif pushed the scenario away. Donut was gone. Dead. Murdered. That was a mark that would never come back. But the scene he’d imagined… that could still happen. Tucker’s aquamarine might not blossom on his arm. The others marks, the ones he didn’t know whose’s they belonged to, could also be ruined.

And he didn’t _dare_ go to Simmons and expose the mark on his back. The other man was too smart not to notice the other marks if he was looking close enough. He’d ask _questions_. _What happened? Who did this? Are you sure you have the right people? We should test this_.

The interrogation that would follow… the way Simmons would want to _experiment_ … that was almost as bad as the pity that would follow if _anyone_ found out what had happened.

As Simmons approached the edge of the minefield, Grif resolved to be more careful moving forward. He had Kai. He had Caboose. Sarge, too, on some level. And he wouldn’t poke his nose into everything.

That was enough. It had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really hoping to do more with this chapter but Sarge flat out refused to offer any kind of emotional intimacy at this junction and may or may not have threatened to start shooting if I tried to make him open up about his feelings.


	4. Carolina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I was going to finish the next chapter of Report Live From Chorus but this wanted to be written first. So… yay? And hello, unexpected pre-tuckington scene that somehow took over. Tags have been updated accordingly.

“Tell me where to find Agent Washington and this ends!”

Another spate of bullets tore into the wall over Grif’s head, sending a shower of dusty debris raining down onto his head.

“We should just tell her,” Simmons moaned.

In the distance, Sarge bellowed and fired back. The exchange of fire shifted away from them.

“Don't you fucking dare!” Grif snapped back, twisting around to glare at the other soldier stretched out under cover beside him. “This woman is completely psycho! We tell her where to find him and she’ll probably just shoot us.”

“Or she'll just leave. Since he’s only 500 yards away!”

“I’m not risking it!”

There were more explosions. The woman howled in enraged frustration. Then, the sound of battle rifles rang out, two tight, controlled bursts and the third longer and wilder.

“Surrender or we'll blow your fucking head off!” Tucker yelled.

“I just need information,” the woman countered.

Still lying flat on the ground, Grif groaned and rolled his eyes. On his right, Simmons grumbled.

“Right, because shooting at people makes them want to talk to you. Seriously, lady? Put down the fucking guns!” A soft growl rolled across the impromptu battlefield but there was a sound of crunching gravel and metal scraping on rock. Then, Tucker continued. “Great. Now back the fuck up and show me your hands.”

“Simmons, go collect the lady’s weapons,” Sarge barked from nearby.

“Fuck,” Simmons cursed softly. “Yes, sir!” With a lingering, unhappy glance at Grif, Simmons scrambled to his feet and cautiously emerged from behind the concrete wall.

When no shots rang out, Grif likewise pushed himself to his feet, then peered over the wall with his rifle in hand.

Sarge stood a little ways behind their attacker, shotgun pointed straight at the soldier’s gray armored back. Her hands were raised in the air but slightly clenched. There was obvious tension in her frame and she seemed poised to attack. Meanwhile, Simmons carefully drew closer, curving around the cluster of Blues standing with rifles aimed to fire, so he could collect the rifle and pistol lying in the dirt.

Once Simmons had secured the weapons, Tucker nodded slightly. “Awesome. Now, who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?”

The woman didn’t immediately answer. Her head turned slightly, sweeping past Simmons, the Blues, and glancing at Grif as he lurked behind cover, rifle pointed straight at her. “Since when do Reds and Blues work together?” she asked with clear suspicion.

“Since a bunch of shit happened that you don’t know about. Again, tell me who the fuck you are and what you want. Or we start shooting,” growled Tucker.

With a sigh, the woman shifted her weight slightly. “I’m looking for someone,” she finally answered. “An old friend. I need his help.”

“Oh yeah? This Washington guy? What makes you think we know where to find him.”

“Because you were the last ones to be in contact with him,” she responded. “I’ve seen the UNSC files about the recent incident with the Meta. I know Freelancer Agents Texas and Washington were present. They’re both now listed as KIA. Assets were seized from the site and the Red and Blue soldiers involved were cut loose. That’s you guys.”

“If Washington’s dead, why are you looking for him?” Tucker demanded. His rifle didn’t waiver.

“Wash-- Washington is a survivor. He’s been nearly blown up and killed more times than I can count. Until I personally see his body, I refuse to believe he’s dead.”

“And you’re who, exactly?”

The woman stared back at them, the intensity of her gaze carrying through her narrow visor. She dropped her hands, letting them dangle at her sides. “I’m Agent Carolina of Project Freelancer. Wash is my friend.”

There was a long pause. No one moved. Grif assumed there was rapidfire communication going on between the Blues, either through text messaging or a private comm frequency.

“Take off your helmet,” Tucker suddenly ordered.

“Excuse me?” the woman balked.

“Take. Off. Your. Helmet. Now.”

Growling softly, the woman reluctantly reached up and took hold of her helmet, lifting it up and off. A limp, sweaty tail of red hair dropped out of the teal helmet and landed on her shoulder. More sweat clung to the woman’s pale face. She looked tired and drawn but her eyes glinted with a burning green fire. Tucking her helmet into her arm, she raised her chin and stared back defiantly at the Blues.

Washington lowered his rifle, but didn’t put it away. Beside him, Tucker did the same, reaching out to push Caboose’s weapon down until it was pointed at the ground.

“What are you doing here, Carolina?” Washington demanded with a threatening growl. His voice was tight, controlled, but there was no hiding the obvious menace in his tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

Carolina’s eyes went wide when she recognized his voice. “I could say the same about you,” she began.

“No! No, you can’t say the same,” Washington snapped, interrupting her. “The Meta threw you off a fucking cliff. You survived. Somehow. And did what, fucked around until you needed me?”

“I needed time, Wash! Time to come to terms with what the Project did. What the Director did. What he _made us_ do! Wash-- He has to _pay_ for what he did to us.”

“So this is all about payback?” Incredulity colored Wash’s voice. “I’ve been down that road, Carolina. It doesn’t work.”

“I can _make_ it work. I have a plan, Wash. If you help me, we can make him _pay_ for _everything_.”

Washington stared back at her, taking in the angry snarl on her face, the determined press of her lips. Then he slung his rifle on his back and turned away. “Fuck off, Carolina,” he snapped as he started to stalk away.

Her eyes went wide, jaw lax. Then, blinking, “Wh-- Wash!”

The yellow accented Freelancer stopped and turned. “If you know about the fight with the Meta, then I’m guessing you know everything else. You know about Epsilon. What they did to it. What it did to _me_ . And you did-- what, exactly?” Washington paused, waiting. When she didn’t reply, he pushed on. “You didn’t do _anything_ . Not a damned thing while I was in the hospital. When I was carrying out _their_ dirty work as a Recovery Agent. When I was in fucking _prison_.

“You show up here and demand I come with you. Because you apparently need _my help_ carrying out your little revenge plan. What about me, Carolina? Where the _hell_ were you when _I_ needed you? When I’d been _abandoned_ by my so-called team? When I was _destroying the bodies_ of our _friends_? You didn’t even reach out to let me know you were _alive_. So fuck. Off.”

Without another word, Washington turned back towards Blue Base and strode off.

A few beats later, Caboose turned and dashed after him. Tucker, meanwhile, sighed and slung his rifle onto his back. Then, their shared comm frequency crackled to life.

“Can you guys look after Carolina for the night? I’m going to have my hands full with Agent Melodrama.”

“You’re not seriously going to try to convince him to go along with her, are you?” Grif demanded.

“Nah. But we’re clearly headed for melt-down territory. If me and Caboose can’t settle him down, I’m pretty sure he’s going to start moping and second-guessing himself.”

“How would that be different from how he is right now?” Simmons asked. “He’s been twitchy and paranoid ever since we got here.”

“Yeah, and if we don’t fix this, we’ll add on a fresh layer of guilt on top of everything else. So, I guess we’ll pick this up in the morning?”

“Plan on it, dirtbag. Now, skedaddle so Red Team can start orientation for its newest member!”

“She’s not on Red Team just because-- oh, forget it. Tomorrow!” Cursing under his breath, Tucker stomped away. Behind him, he heard Sarge ordering Simmons to go put Carolina’s weapons away. Meanwhile, the Freelancer protested, demanding they be returned so she could go talk to Washington again.

“Christ, this is a mess,” Tucker muttered, leaving Red Team to its usual insanity. Entering Blue Base, Tucker stopped by the room he shared with Caboose, shedding his heavy armor and changing into a pair of sweats and a simple shirt. They’d stopped at a random Simulation Base while fleeing the snowy battlefield where the Meta had fallen to give Washington time to heal from his injuries. The Reds had shown up a few hours later and moved into the other base, giving them some vague sense of normalcy as they all struggled to adjust to the change in personnel.

Donut’s death still weighed heavily on the Reds and had led them to step up their efforts during random raids and bouts of Capture the Flag. Caboose’s insistence, however, that Blue Team keep Agent Washington was holding the worst of the hostility at bay. Ultimately, no one wanted to upset the Blue soldier or see if this would be the thing that finally pushed him over the edge to overt hostility.

Leaving the bunks behind, Tucker followed the sound of Caboose’s rambling towards the kitchen where they’d been preparing a meager evening meal.

“Hey, I thought we said no armor in the kitchen?” Tucker causally asked as he slouched against the opening to the room.

“Oops,” Caboose whispered. He dropped his stack of plastic plates on the table and turned, running out of the room. “I will go change!” he called out as he disappeared down the hallways.

Tucker tilted his head as the gray armored Freelancer standing frozen in front of the stove. Suppressing a sigh, he pushed away from the wall and rounded the small battered table that took up most of the space, mindful not to move too quickly.

Once he was standing next to Wash, Tucker curled his hand around the other soldier’s arm. “Come on, rules are rules, right?”

For a moment, Washington resisted the light pressure Tucker was applying. Then he let out a soft _huff_. “Fine.” Within moments, the Freelancer disappeared down the same hallway as Caboose.

Melodrama. Just constant melodrama. Suppressing a groan, Tucker applied himself to the simple mix of canned meat, canned vegetables, and broth simmering on the stove. By the time first Caboose, then Washington returned, he was spooning the hearty meal into bowls.

Mercifully, dinner went by quickly. Washington refused to meet anyone’s eyes and only responded with single syllable words or grunts anytime Caboose asked him a question. In the end, he only hate half the stew before pushing away from the table and dumping the leftovers back in the pot.

“I think Agent Washington is upset,” Caboose solemnly informed Tucker once said agent had left the room.

“Yeah, no shit,” Tucker grunted, poking morosely at a chunk of meat.

“Is it because of Agent Cardinal? If I had a friend to see me after years and years, I would be happy and give her a hug.”

“Yeah, well it sounds like there’s a lot of issues between them.” Sighing, Tucker dropped his spoon into his bowl and slowly rose to his feet. “Dump your leftovers in the pot when you’re done,” he ordered. “And Caboose? Do not put _anything_ else in the pot or turn it back on. Okay?”

“Okay.” Caboose nodded and put a hand over his heart. “I will do that thing. Are you going to make Agent Washington stop being sad?”

“No idea, dude. No idea.”

Once his leftovers had been returned to the pot and his bowl dropped in the sink, Tucker went hunting. Washington wasn’t in the breakroom, wasn’t in the armory, the bathroom was empty--

There weren’t a lot of places he could be. This base was a lot smaller than the one in Blood Gulch. Reluctantly, Tucker soon found himself staring at the door to Washington’s bedroom. Before he could change his mind, he reached out and knocked. The door opened a crack a few moments later.

“What?”

“So, Agent Carolina,” Tucker began. Before Washington could shut the door on him, Tucker shoved his foot forward into the gap, then winced as the metal door slammed into him. “Seriously. No way she’s not going to be over here tomorrow, the Reds aren’t going to be able to hold her forever.” There was only silence. “Come on, you gotta give me something here.”

Reluctantly, Washington opened the door and took a step back so Tucker could limp into the room.

Before Washington could change his mind, Tucker threw himself down on the small bed shoved against the wall behind a narrow desk and folded his arms behind his head.

“Get off my bed,” Washington growled, looking peeved.

“You smashed my foot. Gotta keep it elevated.” Propping his injured foot on a raised knee, he wiggled his toes at the Freelancer. “Sit down and tell me about Carolina.”

Working his jaw for a moment, Washington dropped down on the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall and pulling his knees close to his chest. “Carolina was the highest ranked agent in Project Freelancer after Tex,” he began slowly, staring down at the concrete floor. “She lead Alpha Squad and-- she was the best. The most skilled, the most cunning, the best leader out of all of us.”

“And then the Meta threw her off a cliff?” Tucker prompted.

There was a long silence. “Yeah. She had two A.I. fragments, Eta and Iota. It wanted them. So it attacked her, stole the fragments, and left her for dead.”

“That’s intense.” Tucker gave Washington a considering look.

The other soldier looked as awful as usual. Face drawn, dark circles under his eyes, the occasional minute twitch in his fingers and feet. He was a lot younger than Tucker would have expected; there wasn’t a single one of them who hadn’t been shocked when they’d first seen his face back in Sidewinder during the armor swap.

“You’re not happy to see her?” Tucker asked.

Washington’s back stiffened slightly and he drew his knees in closer. “I… I didn’t say that,” he admitted. “I just… don’t know if I- we can trust her.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Tucker realized. Eyes narrowed, he pushed himself upright and swung around to sit next to the Freelancer.

“You and Caboose made me Blue Leader,” Washington protested, staring stone faced at the ground. “I’m just trying to look out of the team.”

“Uh huh. Prove it.”

The sudden challenge startled Washington out of his tightly controlled facade. Blinking rapidly, he looked up, then over at Tucker, who stared back with a raised eyebrow.

“Come on. Show me.” With that, Tucker leaned forward slightly, exposing his back.

What Tucker was asking for-- Washington couldn’t help but curl in on himself slightly at the challenge. But, finally, slowly, he reached out and laid a tentative hand on Tucker’s back, fingers spreading to perfectly fit the matte gray print on his back.

Tucker inhaled slightly at the sudden rush of feelings, the brush of Washington’s soul against his own.

 _The damage was the first thing he always noticed, something like stress-fractures overlaying everything that made him_ **_Washington_** _. It wasn’t quite as bad as the first time Washington’s hand had touched his back, groping out in his sleep the middle of the night as they slept in the breakroom, the bedrooms too dirty for habitation yet. The cracks were starting to heal. The tangled knot of fear and betrayal had been loosening, coming undone, but Carolina’s sudden appearance had caused everything to lock up again. As Tucker waded through the sensations, though, he reached out with metaphorical fingers and nudged the darkness aside, looking for what lay underneath, the part of himself Washington was most desperate to protect. It took time, but time was an illusion here. Eventually he found the damaged inner core and heard the pained whimpers, felt the loss and confusion, the misery and unexpressed grief. And most of all, the loneliness._

Careful not to jostle Washington’s hand, Tucker reached out with his own and lightly rested his hand on the back of the Freelancer’s neck. There was an immediate reaction, a spike of fear at having _anyone_ touch him there, but warmth of Tucker’s soul soon worked its magic and Wash let him be tugged down onto the bed and wrapped up in a tight embrace.

_The circle of sensation passing between them was gentle and comforting. There were no demands, no pressure to provide anything but his presence. Each flicker of fear and pain that tangled through his mind was quickly soothed by the purr-like brush of Tucker’s reassurance. Wash felt the agony Carolina’s return had prompted begin to ease at the wordless reassurances._

_She abandoned me, his mind whimpered._

_We won’t, Tucker promised._

_If she’d been there, the others might be alive._

_I’m sorry._

_They hurt me._

_I know. We won’t let it happen again._

Wash let his forehead rest against Tucker’s, his eyes drifting shut. The warm hand on the back of his neck perfectly covered his implants while Tucker used his fingers and the palm of his hand to rub gently around the C1 and C2 vertebrae at the base of his skull, easing his slowly building headache.

As the Freelancer drifted off to sleep, Tucker was careful not to move or disrupt the easy energy moving between them. Washington had enough trouble sleeping; he wasn’t going to cause a fuss and mess him up now. He let his hand continue its gentle massage, focusing on keeping his mind calm and relaxed. Wash was more hurt than angry, felt more betrayed than wrathful. Assuming Carolina could be made to see that, their next conversation might not go too badly after all.

Unfortunately, tensions in Red Base were considerably higher than at Blue Base. Carolina was a bundle of angry nerves, snarling and stalking through the short hallways like an enraged lion. She’d accepted that Agent Washington would probably benefit from having some time to adjust to knowing she was alive and on-hand. But it didn’t mean she was happy about it.

Simmons had long since fled in terror. Sarge had thrown his hands up and stomped away when she refused to swear allegiance to the Red Army. That left Grif eating a bag of chips in the kitchen while Miss Crankypants growled. At least they’d gotten her to remove her armor, although she had refused the offer of sweatpants or a t-shirt.

“Did you have any kind of plan besides ‘Show up’ and ‘Immediately recruit Agent Washington’?” Grif asked in curiosity as the Freelancer passed through the kitchen.

Carolina froze mid-step, then turned to face him, fury writ across her face.

Unconcerned with the angry display, Grif shrugged. “Just saying. From here, it doesn’t look like you ever considered that he might not be happy to see you.”

“You don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” she snapped. “Wash will come around. He always does.”

“Yeah, but was that before or _after_ you left him behind?” Grif groped for another chip but only found empty air. He peeked into the bag. Alas, empty. Crumbling the plastic bag into ball, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.

Carolina, meanwhile, stormed up to him, unconcerned with the almost half a foot difference in their heights.

“I didn’t come here to play house with a bunch of Simulation Troopers,” she snarled. “I came here for _Washington_ so we could _put a stop_ to everyth-- Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded as Grif tried to edge around her.

“Uh, trash can?” He waved his chip bag ball in her face. “Unless you want to take care of it. Because if I leave it out, Simmons will just bitch about it all day tomorrow and frankly, I think we’ve had our fill of melodrama for the week.”

“You-- Oh, no, you don’t get to walk away from this,” she sputtered, shifting around to block him. “You want to pick a fight? That’s fine by me.”

“Whatever, lady.” Rolling his eyes, Grif tried again to push past her.

It was probably the defiance that ticked her off. Carolina immediately reached out and shoved him back. And Grif assumed she could kick his ass; she was a Freelancer, after all. But it had been a long day with a very dramatic evening. He was tired, still hungry, and suddenly immensely irritated at the red haired woman trying to order him around.

Eyes narrowed, he faked a movement to the left; she blocked him. He immediately swept out his right hand, hand slapping against her side to push her away. His large hand easily curled around her waist. Her body went rigid, stumbling mid step, and collided with him, hand reaching out to brace herself against his chest.

_Lonely-lonely-lonely-failure--_

_It was so cold, like being surrounded on all sides by snow--_

_There was life, growing growing things buried under that snow. Grif could feel Carolina’s shock and confusion. She was locked into her current path, trapped by all the snow--_

_As the energy swirled between them, they realized at the same moment that the surprise at the sudden connection was the same in both of them._ **_They_ ** _were the same. They didn’t get to have bonds like this anymore, they’d been taken/killed/burned/frozen. They thought they’d be alone, broken, for ever--_

The big brother in Grif, the protective instincts that had watched over his sister, over Simmons, Donut, Caboose, and the others roared to life at the misery and guilt and pain radiating out of the Freelancer. Without thinking, he pulled her close and wrapped his free arm around her shoulders; he was careful to keep their hands where they were locked onto each other. The crumbled chip bag fell forgotten to the floor.

Time passed without measure in the quiet kitchen. Neither soldier made a sound beyond Carolina’s shaky breaths as she buried her face in Grif’s shoulder. Eventually, the synergy between the pair settled down and the sensation of being **_them_ ** tapered away and they were separate beings once more. For several minutes, Carolina didn’t move, drawing on Grif’s rocksteady presence, the certainty with which he carried out his actions. And he couldn’t help but reach out and soothe the battered feminine presence rumbling in his mind.

Eventually, Carolina stiffened, muscles tensing, and Grif felt the sudden flicker of self-consciousness flood through her. He let go. For a moment, she stared up at him, eyes wide.

“I have to go,” she said in a rush, and bolted from the kitchen.

Grif stared after her.

That had been-- different. He absently raised his hand and covered the new handprint on his chest. What the fuck had that all been about?


	5. Tucker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Tucker is going to be a big POV character in this story now.
> 
> And yes, that's TWO story updates in one day/period of being awake.

Tucker felt almost boneless as he leaned against the wall of the narrow shower. Being shipwrecked had sucked. Being shipwrecked without working showers had made everything ten times worse, especially with how pushy Wash had been about training.

He’d give anything to have all that back.

Sore and aching from leading the timid New Republic soldiers through training, Tucker grudgingly straightened up and started to scrub. His worn cleaning rag dragged limply across the dark blue on his left leg and the yellow handprint planted firmly on one buttcheek.

He missed Sister. They’d had a lot of fun together. She’d understood him on a level no one else ever had.

He continued to scrub away at the sweat clinging to his skin. Pink gleamed on his right side after a few passes.

Donut’s absence at the crash site had been awful and wonderful all at the same time. He’d missed the petite soldier; he’d made the months in the desert fly by. But he wouldn’t have wished the constant lowkey terror of being marooned on him. Mostly, he’d hoped Donut and Doc were happy and safe on their way to Earth.

And now, Donut was languishing in the hands of the Federal Army along with Sarge, Lopez, and Wash.

For a moment, the matte gray mark on his back seemed the throb. He paused, draping an arm over his shoulder to brush his fingers over the outlined fingertips. They’d formed a habit of sleeping side by side in their shelter after the wreck, hands pressed against each other’s marks as they sought and found safety and comfort in the easy hum of soul-to-soul contact.

Did Wash have anyone now who shared marks with him? The worry made it hard to sleep at night sometimes. The Freelancer had already lost so much… Brown, gold, purple, and white handprints were already starting to dull on his freckled skin, the edges getting fuzzy and indistinct now that their owners were dead and gone.

The stress and strain of being a solitary soul was awful. Wash was a walking, textbook example of what being cut off from your soulmates was like. He’d gone _years_ without a friendly touch, without the brush of another human’s soul against his. It messed with your head, being cut off from others. And was probably a good chunk of the reason Wash ended up somewhat, if not actively, suicidal. Once your first mark flared under another’s touch, you changed. Part of your brain almost seemed to be rewired to hunt for and crave that connection. The bond was unbreakable, undeniable. And losing it--

The thought made Tucker shudder. Losing a soulmate, whether to death or distance, was a frequent theme in all the shitty books he’d had to read in school. The message in those books had been clear: losing your soulmates made you go crazy. It was like being lost as sea and marooned on an island. It was Tom Hanks in _Castaway_ but worse. Hollywood hadn’t gone into the full brain breaking, soul wrenching damage losing your soulmates caused. They’d been making a survival flick, after all, not a horror movie.

For a time, Wash had lost all his soulmates. And with no reassuring contact with his soul and the weight of Epsilon’s collapse in his head, he’d lost any hope the unfilled marks on his skin could have provided.

Because that’s what losing your soulmates did to you. It made you crazy. Made you lash out and hurt people. Your best friend or your own kids. Anyone who was close to you.

He and Caboose had _finally_ started unwinding the tangled hurt and loneliness and fear Wash carried inside him. And it terrified Tucker to think that Wash might be alone once more.

He still had a few unfilled marks, though. It was possible, maybe even likely, that Donut or Sarge’s hands would find him and flood his flesh red or pink.

Speaking of unfilled marks…

As he shifted his attention to his arms, a familiar flare of irritation crept up on him. Simmons’ maroon hand perched on his right shoulder, the clear definition of his hand and perfect spread of his fingers looking like a picture right out of a biology textbook. But further down, his final unfilled soulmark gleamed on his elbow, a broad palm and large, blunt fingers wrapped securely around the joint. He remembered the day when the bright orange had appeared, his third soulmark and the first one he could see without contorting himself and looking in a mirror.

It was Grif’s. It had to be Grif’s, nothing else made sense, but the fucker wouldn’t _do anything_ about it.

Caboose leaned against him every morning, a massive hand resting on his leg while Tucker wrapped a hand around his forearm while they ate. Simmons wouldn’t reach out on his own, the shy nerd, but he never hesitated to grab his shoulder when Tucker wrapped an arm around his back and found the mark tucked near his side. Hell, even _Kimball_ made a point to shake or grab his hand at least every other day or so. (And he was still getting used to the light blue mark wrapping around the palm of his hand.) With their friends captured by the Federal Army _(they had_ **_Wash_ ** _part of his mind whimpered in pain)_ , the reassuring touches were the only things keeping them grounded and focused.

Still annoyed, Tucker turned off the shower and groped for his towel. He’d immediately recognized Sister’s yellow on Grif’s finger. He’d caught glimpses of what had to be Sarge’s hand on his shoulder and Carolina’s on his chest. _His_ hand was him somewhere, and probably Simmons’ as well.

But the only mark the asshole would acknowledge was Caboose’s on his forearm. And that was because the idiot insisted on dragging him around the New Republic base by it every morning and evening without fail. Even Smith, Caboose’s newest Best Friend, took second fiddle to Grif.

Grif was crazy. That had the be the answer. It was the only thing that made sense! One person, one soulmark, wasn’t enough to do the work of four (or more!) and Grif was just… refusing to open himself to the connection he and Simmons were _literally_ waiting to form with him.

Once dry and dressed in loose fatigues, Tucker tossed his towel over his shoulder and stomped towards the small barracks he and the others had been assigned. He was _so done_ with the attitude.

When he entered the barracks, Grif and Simmons had already changed out of their armor for the night and were caught up in one of their endless, ridiculous arguments.

“I’m just saying,” Grif snorted as he tightened the laces on his boots, “you don’t have to shout a phrase in Latin to fire a gun.”

Letting out a soft, frustrated sound, Simmons crossed his arms as he hovered close by. “Even putting silent spell casting aside, you’re completely ignoring just how much widespread damage some of the spells in _Harry Potter_ can cause.”

“And that doesn’t matter once you have a bullet in your brain,” Grif retorted. Satisfied with his laces, he rose to his feet and nodded briefly at Tucker. “We’re raiding the mess hall,” he explained brightly. “One of the supply runs just brought in a whole pallet of pudding cups.”

Tucker stared at the pair in disbelief. “You’re raiding the mess hall,” he demanded in a flat, leveling a stare at Simmons, who shifted sheepishly.

“Some of them are butterscotch flavored,” Grif mock whispered.

“It’s first come, first serve, not a raid,” Simmons quickly added, a faint flush crossing the organic parts of his face. “We should hurry. Can’t believe I’m having to tell _you_ that, fatass.”

Grif flapped his hand at the other man and started towards the door. For a moment, Simmons reached out, hand hovering briefly over the small of Grif’s back as though to usher him out before he yanked it away. The blush deepened.

When the door finally swung shut behind them, Tucker sighed and dropped his towel on the floor before flopping onto his bed. “Those two are exhausting,” he groaned to the ceiling.

“Maybe they’ll be happier once they have pudding,” Caboose suggested from his own bed. His large fingers were rapidly turning over a broken piece of machinery Smith had found for his captain earlier that day. Extra parts and tools lay scattered on a towel Simmons made him use to protect his bed from oil and grease.

Tucker watched him work for a few minutes, marveling slightly at the intuition and steady confidence Caboose displayed when working with machinery. “Hey,” he finally said.

Caboose glanced over, his face open and relaxed.

“What’s the deal with Grif?”

Frowning, Caboose cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Soulmarks. Why’s he so weird about them? I mean,” he raised his arm, angling his elbow and the unfilled mark towards Caboose. “This is him. It’s absolutely him. But every time I’ve tried to bring it up, he brushes me off, leaves, or starts a fight. He lets you touch him, why won’t he let me or Simmons?”

Eyes going wide, Caboose froze momentarily, then set down the machinery and tried to school his expression into his usual cheer. “I... don’t know, you’ll have to ask-”

“Bullshit,” Tucker snapped. Pushing himself upright, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned forward onto his legs. “Come on, I know you know what’s going on.”

Letting out a soft, distressed sound, Caboose shifted his gaze towards the ceiling. His jaw worked soundlessly, his brow furrowing as he thought. Finally, still staring upwards, he spoke: “Not everybody likes soulmarks.”

“Not likes-- Caboose, soulmarks are better than _sex_ ,” Tucker responded with incredulity. “That’s _me_ saying that. So what the crap do you mean not everybody likes soulmarks?” When the other soldier didn’t reply, Tucker felt his eyebrows rise up. “Did Grif tell you not to talk about this?”

Morosely, Caboose nodded, sighing softly. “Grif… does not like his soulmarks,” he said sadly.

“Is it…” Tucker paused to think. “Is it because of his scars? I mean, yeah, he’s basically one big walking mass of scar tissue. Does he think they’d look weird or something?” Then, frowning, “I don’t get how them looking messed up would make him not _like_ them.”

Caboose didn’t answer, instead finally dropping his gaze from the ceiling to stare unhappily at Tucker. “If you and Grif become Best Friends, you’ll understand,” he said simply.

“Okay, then how do I make that happen?” Tucker demanded in exasperation. “Do you know where I am on him?”

There was an immediately gasp of horror. “Tucker, it is not polite to ask!” Caboose rebuked him.

“We are so far beyond being polite.” With a grumble, Tucker shifted, twisting so he could flop back on the bed. “Alright, I guess I’ll go back to do this the old fashioned way.”

“Even you have smart ideas sometimes.” With a final approving nod, Caboose returned to his repairs.

“Shut up, dumb ass.” Shaking his head, Tucker started to undo his pants so he could get ready for bed. “You know, given his other options for soulmates right now are _absent, crazy lunatic with a shotgun_ , and _cranky while also crazy_ , you’re not the worst person he could be stuck here with.”

Letting out a soft hum, Caboose nodded in absent minded agreement. “He takes _so much_ looking after.”

“Hah. I bet he does.”

Even with new resolve and Caboose’s quiet but enthusiastic support, though, Tucker still couldn’t pin Grif down long enough to discuss soulmarks or even to simply jam his hand on his elbow and get it over with. And as he started taking his team out on scouting and intel missions, he couldn’t help but shift his focus away from Grif and onto the task of finding a way to wave Wash and the others. But, it turned out he couldn’t even do that properly.

“Still moping?”

Tucker started at the sudden sound of Grif’s voice, small rocks and dirt scratching at his hands as he began scrambling to his feet.

Snorting softly, Grif made a dismissive gesture and leaned against the back wall of their barracks. Tucker slumped back once more.

“I’m not moping. People fucking died, Grif,” Tucker growled softly. “On my watch.”

“But you got the intel.” When no response followed, Grif sighed and slid down to sit next to Tucker. “Look, it sucks that most of your team got killed. But if you can’t focus on what went right, then you’re always going to be second guessing yourself.”

“Oh yeah? And since when do you know all about leading people to their deaths?” Bitterness clogged Tucker’s throat.

This time, Grif was the one who fell silent.

Tucker glanced sideways. There was an unusually somber look on Grif’s round face and a distant look in his eyes as he stared into the shadows cast by distant lights.

“I know Kimball said it was a net win,” Tucker finally continued, turning away. “I just-- I have to do better if we’re going to train the lieutenants and rescue Wash and the others. We only have five days. Or it will all be for nothing.”

“Probably not the best time to go over to our track record, then,” Grif grunted.

“God, don’t even think about that.” Letting his head fall against the building, Tucker stared up at the cavernous ceiling far overhead. He was just so fucking tired. Weariness weighed him down, made his limbs feel dull and heavy.

After some time passed, Grif straightened and rose to a crouch. “Come on, even I prefer sleeping in a bed if possible.” He reached out and snagged Tucker’s elbow and started to tug him upright. Before he could stand, Tucker grabbed his hand and clutched it tight, refusing to budge.

 _The scent of saltwater flooded his nose as his feet seemed to sink into burning hot sand. Tropical warmth rolled over him and he sudden found himself craving the cool relief of ice cream as seagulls called out overhead. Tucker gasped as every sense lit up, touch, taste, scent, hearing -- for a moment, he even thought he could see an endless blue horizon. He’d experienced sensory flashes before through his soulmarks but never anything so_ **_vivid_** _._

_And then that first instance ended and a second began, time seemingly slowed to a crawl. The second moment carried the rush of emotions, the almost-words souls used to communicate. Immediately, he was almost overwhelmed by the Grif’s rocksteady certainly; he didn’t dwell or linger on the past. Reflection was useful but a tool only to help guide future action. Then he felt his hidden passion, a relentless drive to protect the ones he cared about._

_He could have stopped there, let himself sink into Grif’s unexpectedly comforting presence. But Tucker couldn’t help but crave more, to learn and better understand those closest to him, his literal soulmates. Without thinking or hesitating, he reached out and dug deeper, nudging past those initial impressions._

_Beneath the surface, he found a tangled mess of pain, guilt, shame, fear, and yearning. His soul didn’t wear the damage of several sudden, deep wounds like Wash but rather the relentless grinding and destruction of thousands of cuts delivered over a lifetime. The scent of saltwater was suddenly overcome with the smell of smoke and the burning sand under his feet seemed to ignite._

_As he sank deeper and deeper, the loneliness of a lifetime spent struggling under the weight of tasks that far outweighed his capabilities swept over him. Guilt and shame sank their teeth into him -- he must have done something to make_ **_her_ ** _hate him so much, to want to break him--_

The connection was instantly shattered as Grif jerked away. Tucker stared up at the other man, shocked and rattled, mind groping as he struggled to readjust. Then, Grif took a halting step backwards, eyes wide--

Without thinking, Tucker lunged forward, grabbing at his arm in panic. He couldn’t leave, not when he was _hurting so much_ \--

His hand must have found its mark on because the he froze in place. Tentatively, Tucker let go with one hand; he didn’t need to clutch as Grif’s forearm when he already knew that space belonged to Caboose. His other hand, however, clung determinedly to Grif’s upper arm, wrapped around one of his bulky biceps. When it was clear the connection was still in place, Tucker let out a soft sigh of relief and tugged Grif back downwards.

Once he had Grif seated on the ground once more, Tucker grabbed Grif’s free hand and guided it back to his elbow. And as the link was formed once more, he resolved to stick to the surface level for now.

 _In the space of a single breath, Tucker felt Grif’s surprise and confusion at the new mark coloring his arm under his shirt. He couldn’t help but scan a bit deeper than most did - honestly, it seemed to be a Blue Team trait - so it wasn’t hard to finally see and understand just what Caboose had meant when he’d said Grif didn’t like his soulmarks. The line Grif had drawn between his soulmarks and being_ **_hurt_ ** _practically glowed like a neon sign in the Vegas quadrant. No wonder Grif didn’t like his soulmarks. Each one was a memory of past suffering and the promise of future terror if anyone ever found out. Grif’s pain wasn’t like Wash’s, wasn’t as easily soothed, but Tucker did the best he could._

_I just want to stop hurting, Grif’s soul seemed to whimper._

_I’ll do everything I can to help, Tucker promised._

_Grif protested: I’m the one who’s supposed to protect people._

_I can help you protect everyone. You aren’t alone anymore. We can do it together._

_How do I know you’re telling me the truth?_

_I can’t lie to you, not here._

By the time Grif settled down enough to come back to himself and pull away, both Tucker’s legs had fallen asleep. The prickly pins and needles sensation swarmed his lower limbs but he didn’t regret a minute of it. He wasn’t sure how much Grif believed his wordless reassurances, not after he’d spent a lifetime being hurt and lied to, but he was worth the effort.

Before Grif could leave, Tucker leaned forward and tugged his sleeve up, exposing his upper arm. The other man froze, back going rigid as the warped scar tissue came into view.

A sick feeling filled Tucker’s stomach. If he hadn’t known his mark was there, he would never have realized just from looking at it. There was a hint of teal here and there but the scarring was thick and widespread, old cuts and slices crisscrossing a much older burn. He let the sleeve fall back into place.

Then, taking a deep breath, “Help me up,” he begged, extending his arms into the air like a toddler. Grif didn’t look amused but also didn’t hesitate to stand and yank him upright. He immediately stumbled and fell against Grif’s bulky form. “Ass. My feet are asleep.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Grif replied in a clipped voice. Once he was certain Tucker was steady on his feet, he turned and all but ran, disappearing around the corner of the building within moments.

He leaned against the building, needing a moment to gather his thoughts and settle his emotions. No wonder Caboose hung off him all the time; he was trying to heal the damage of a lifetime of abuse all by himself. Hell, he’d always assumed Grif’s soul would be a bit rough around the edges, but he hadn’t expected anything like _that_.

He’d need to be careful moving forward. He didn’t want to rub it in Simmons’ face that he’d finally gotten the connection they’d both been craving. Grif would need time to adjust and come to terms with the new soulmark, with being linked to someone new. And as much as he wanted Grif and Simmons to finally get together, sharing soulmarks wouldn’t just snap everything into place and magically fix everything. No, his immediate priority was reassuring Grif that he wasn’t going to start blabbing about soulmarks all over the place. Everything else… well, that could come later.


	6. Washington

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this for far too long so now that it's done, it's going up.
> 
> Minor spelling, grammar, and missing word edits will be happening over the next few days.

“This is just sad,” Grif sighed in mock sympathy, a notable shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

“You-- you an, an asshole,” Tucker slurred and stuttered, pausing his slow, careful movements for a moment to glare up at the other soldier. “I sav’ all you guys. Should be help-helping me. Not laf’fin.”

With a heavy sigh of his own, Simmons finally stepped forward to the side of the hospital bed, reached out, and carefully shoved Tucker back against the somewhat lumpy pillow. “If you pull your stitches, I’m pretty sure Dr. Grey will do more than just give you the good drugs,” he informed Tucker in a prim voice. His hand, meanwhile, lingered on the other man’s shoulder, carrying his unspoken worry and relief through the soulmark.

Tucker grinned, his face lighting up as much as it could through his drug-induced haze. A clumsy hand groped its way up Simmons’s side, searching for the teal mark hiding under simple fatigues. “You- you’re a good guy, Simmons,” he beamed. “But, like, that stick. The one. The one up your butt. Take it out. You-” his head swerved towards Grif. “You need to help him with that. Seriously. Been _years_ . Get on that. Heh. _In that_. Bow chicka-bow… bow- uh...”

A fresh snicker slipped out of Grif as Tucker lost track of his usual catchphrase. “Seriously, though,” he finally continued. “Do you promise to stop trying to crawl into Washington’s bed once we leave?”

Tucker let out an immediate whine.“He’s all alooooone. He needs- needs people. With him.”

“He really isn’t going to stay put, is he?” Simmons groaned, turning to address Grif. His hand, meanwhile, tightened slightly on Tucker’s shoulder as the injured man’s hand found its mark. Finally relaxing, Tucker stopped trying to roll off his bed and let out a happy burble as a mushy wave of emotions started to circulate in and out of his mind. With a small grimace, Simmons shook his head at whatever sensations Tucker was giving off. “Yeah, he’s just going to start acting up again the moment we’re gone.”

“That’s a terrible decision,” Grif grunted. “His stomach’s still fucked up from where Felix stabbed him.”

“Well, we need to do something, because I can’t just keep standing here all day,” Simmons shot back.

“Shouldn’t there be, like, a nurse or someone here to keep him under control?” Grif demanded, casting a look around.

Instead of spotting one of the New Republic nurses, the small recovery room was empty save for the two injured soldiers, Simmons, and himself. The room itself was relatively far from the rest of the rebel faction’s small medical facilities; Grey had insisted that Tucker and Wash needed as much peace and quiet necessary to recover from the injuries they had both sustained during the fight with Felix and Locus.

Tucker’s gut wound was by far the worst injury to emerge from the conflict at the Jamming Tower. Wash, meanwhile, had a concussion, cracked ribs, and was just generally battered all over. Given the number of head wounds he’d sustained in the past, Dr. Grey insisted he remain in the makeshift hospital for a few days, at the very least.

And it was probably for the better than the cheery doctor had put her foot down. Once Donut had managed to spirit away both his steel gray armor and his fatigues, leaving Wash trapped in just an open-backed hospital gown, he’d also grudgingly admitted that he’d been struggling with bouts of dizziness and fatigue, as well as blurry vision and a persistent ringing in his ears. All together, Wash had more than earned the hospital bed right next to Tucker’s.

Letting out a frustrated groan when no medical staff materialized in the room, Grif ran a hand through his hair. “How have _we_ been left to deal with this?” he demanded.

“Everyone else is busy keeping Kimball and General Doyle from killing each other while they work out the terms of the ceasefire,” Simmons promptly answered. He shuffled his feet slightly, causing Tucker to let out an irritated whine and clutch tighter. “Sarge and Donut are managing Doyle while Carolina is keeping Kimball calm. And Caboose is, well, being Caboose and somehow, that’s keeping the Rebels from trying to kill the Fed soldiers Doyle brought with him.”

Grif wrinkled his nose. “Politics.” With a heavy sigh, he dropped his hand back to his side and looked back and forth between Tucker and Wash. “Alright,” he finally declared, pushing his shoulders back and thrusting his chest out slightly. “There’s only one solution here.” Inhaling deeply through his nose, he let out an aggravated breath and walked up to Wash’s bedside.

Reaching down, he gently took hold of the former Freelancer’s shoulder and gave him a small shake. “Come on, wake up,” he prompted the sleeping soldier.

At first, Wash didn’t respond, but after a few more shakes, his face twitched, scrunching up as he shifted slightly. “Wha…?” he mumbled, eyes blinking sluggishly for a moment before drifting closed once more.

“Grif, what are you-”

“Shut up, Simmons,” Grif snapped, glaring briefly over his shoulder. “Get Tucker to shift over some,” he ordered in a peeved voice before turning his attention back to Washington.

Tightening his grip, Grif tugged at the former Freelancer’s shoulder, slowly encouraging him to sit upright. Even once he was vertical, Wash still seemed fairly out of it, swaying slightly as his eyes fluttered.

“Come on,” Grif coaxed, reaching out with his other hand to draw back the covers. “Tucker needs you,” he continued.

“Tucker?” Blinking faster, it was clear the name had penetrated the dense fog of sleep engulfing Wash’s mind.

“Yeah, he’s being a pain in the ass,” Grif replied with a faint grin of amusement. “He’s right over here. Come on, stand up. I’ll help you.”

Limbs clumsy, Wash swung his legs over the side of the bed and staggered to his feet. Clutching at the back of Grif’s shirt, he started the short trek from his bed to Tucker’s.

Simmons, meanwhile, was busy helping Tucker shift closer to the edge of his bed, mindful that he needed to keep from putting any pressure on his abdomen. And thus, he didn’t notice when Grif’s breath hitched in surprise, eyes going wide as his body stiffened suddenly.

_The palm of Wash’s hand drove into the final scar Jezzie had burned into his flesh. Wash’s soul was battered, cracked and scarred; the layers of damage almost felt familiar to him. As the faint scent of fresh fruit filled his nose, Grif pushed his surprise aside and focused on the ebb and flow of Wash’s conscious mind._

_The lingering effects of the concussion were clearly evident in the sluggish shift of Wash’s unspoken thoughts while sleep-fog blurred nearly everything else. What he could make out, however, was that, to Wash, helping Tucker was_ **_Important_ ** _. The swirling mix of emotions was nearly impossible to sort out but the overarching thrust of all of them was a deep and unabashed drive to_ **_Protect_ ** _his team at any cost._

_Grey was monitoring him, Grif reminded himself; there was no need to do any of the tests or scans he’d performed on Kai countless times after a beating. But he couldn’t help but take a moment to brush through the muddled flow of Wash’s soul, a wave of relief passing over him when no hidden wounds or pains were found lurking deep within._

Shaking his head slightly, Grif did his best to turn his attention back to the outside world where only a few seconds had passed. It only took about ten small, shuffling steps before he and Wash reached Tucker’s bedside.

“Here’s Tucker,” Grif informed Wash, who blinked blearily down at the dark skinned man squinting back up at them.

Reaching across from the other side of the bed, Simmons helped Grif guide Blue Leader down onto the mattress and under the covers.

Letting out a soft, happy noise, Tucker yanked his hand away from Simmons and squirmed his other up so that he could cup a protective hand over the teal mark on the back of Wash’s freckled neck. The angle was awkward but neither of them seem to care.

In response, Wash let out a soft sigh, the hand closest to Tucker shifting under the bedsheets to find some part of the other man to touch and hold onto. Within minutes, they were both fast asleep.

Coming around the bed, Simmons nudged Grif’s side with a sharp elbow as he looked down at the sleeping Blues. “That was good thinking,” he said in a pleased voice. “I mean, Grey may not be thrilled but at least this way Tucker will stop moving around so much.”

Grif started, hastily dragging his hand down from where he’d been rubbing the back of his neck as he stared down at the sleeping pair. “Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks.” Taking a quick breath, he shifted, turning towards the door. “It’s lunch time, right?”

Simmons gave him a brief, quizzical look before snorting. “Don’t you ever stop thinking about stuffing your face, tub gut?” he demanded, falling into step beside him.

“Never,” Grif shot back. “Besides, without me, you’d never eat. You’d be too busy sucking up to Kimball or Sarge or maybe even Doyle.”

“Asshole,” Simmons grumbled. He paused to pull the door to Tucker and Wash’s room shut.

“That’s me.”

They were in full gossip mode by the time they made their way out of the medical facility, speculating on what would happen when Wash woke up, if Tucker woke up first, or if something else entirely would happen. And as they walked, Grif pondered the new mark on his back - a mark nearly identical to the one on Kai’s back - and just what it might mean for the future.

* * *

 By the time the New Republic of Chorus was fully moved into the capital city of Armonia, Wash and Tucker were finally, officially, shacking up together. Grif, of course, took full credit for this new development.

“I’m just saying,” Grif panted as he and Tucker took a small break behind a shed during morning laps. “You owe me. If me and Simmons hadn’t dumped Wash in your hospital bed, you probably would have ended up bleeding out on the floor or something. And definitely not having - what did you call it - _“awesome Freelancer sex”_ every night.”

Scowling, Tucker collapsed against the shack wall and glared.. “You have, like, zero room to talk,” he growled. “Me and Wash were doing just fine without you two idiots. We’d have ended up making the beast with two backs soon enough. Meanwhile, you and Simmons still can’t even hold a single damned conversation that isn’t a fucking argument about some bullshit topic _and_ you two don’t even get to have make-up sex afterwards. Hell, you two still won’t admit you _want_ to be having make-up sex. Or regular sex. Or any kind of physical contact besides elbowing each other in the side. It’s bullshit, is what it is.”

“Uh, newsflash,” Grif snapped back. “We aren’t dating because, in a shocking turn of events, _we don’t want to date each other_.”

“That’s a fucking lie and you know it.” With a roll of his eyes, Tucker rolled off his shoulder and pressed his back against the wall. He’d only lapped Grif three times so far; the orange armored soldier was getting better.

In a somewhat amusing turn of events, Tucker still found himself spending most of his days with Grif when they weren’t on some kind of mission or training with Wash. Sarge refused to relinquish control over the armory and Donut had, apparently, appointed himself as both a fashion consultant and confidant for the stressed out teenaged soldiers of Chorus. Meanwhile, Simmons was nearly crying tears of joy at how many spreadsheets and databases he was making in order to manage their supplies.

Happily, though, their formerly sundered group didn’t remain apart all the time, as they did get to have actual downtime now that they were behind Armonia’s fortified walls. It wasn’t anything fancy, but a few freestanding movie theaters had survived and the local library did busy business loaning out books, movies, and audio works to whomever walked through the door. The librarians didn’t care if their patrons were Feds, News, or anyone else. They were just happy to be able to bring a small spot of joy to the lives of the defenders of Chorus. (So long as materials were returned intact and on-time. The librarians were heavily armed and aggressive; as a result, the return rate for library materials was noticeably higher than in the pre-war days.)

Grif sucked in another deep breath. “Hey,” he wheezed, “if I found a pool, do you think Wash would let me substitute swimming for running?”

“What?”

“I swear to God, I will swim laps for days without complaining if it gets me out of running.”

Tucker turned his head to stare at Grif. “Honestly, I have no fucking clue, dude,” he admitted. Before he could pursue this new topic further, Wash erupted around the corner and loomed menacingly before them.

“This isn’t running,” the Freelancer growled. “If you aren’t moving again in _five seconds_ , I’m adding laps.”

“Aw, come on, we’re just taking-”

“Five. Four.”

“Hey, Wash, I was wondering if I could ask you someth-”

“Three. TWO.” The timbre of Wash’s voice dropped lower and he swung his battle rifle up to point at the two Simulation soldiers.

“Alright, alright, we’re going!” Tucker slapped the back of his hand against Grif’s shoulder and took off. There was a beat of silence.

“One.” Wash chambered a round and aimed.

“I’m a fucking wheelman, not a damned Olympic sprinter.” With that final grumble, Grif reluctantly pushed away from the shed and returned to his halfhearted jogging.

Once Grif was out of sight, Wash let out a soft laugh and swung his rifle back on his back. “Just need to find the right motivation,” he mused. Shaking his head, he turned and started back towards the training field.

* * *

Hours later, Tucker bit back an angry snarl as he jammed his helmet back on and stalked out of the locker room. He couldn’t even _shower_ in peace. After running through every nightmarish exercise Wash could think of, each worse than the last, all he’d wanted to do was rinse off the sweat and aching pain of training.

But no. Palomo wouldn’t fucking _leave him alone_.

Which meant cutting his shower sort. And dragging his armor on over wet skin. Their undersuits might be self-cleaning but it still felt _so gross_.

Happily, though, he was leaving the adoring lieutenant behind and had several hours to kill before demolitions training after lunch. Time to find Grif and find a way to waste some time.

After reaching their barracks, Tucker hurried straight to Grif’s room and burst in after only two short knocks. “So I got a message this morning saying that the movie I put a hold on was finally returned,” he proclaimed as he dragged his helmet off. “Just let me borrow your terminal and I can download it real- Holy fuck, is that what I think it is?” Still clutching his helmet, Tucker stared wide eyed at the familiar matte gray mark on Grif’s back.

The other soldier turned, a dark scowl on his face as he hastily dragged a shirt over his head.

Tossing his helmet on the bed and kicking the door shut with his foot, Tucker hurried forward and grabbed at Grif’s shirt, hoping to tug it up so he could take a closer look. Grif, however, twisted around, knocking his hand away before stepping out of range.

Taking a deep breath, Tucker raised his hands in apology and shifted backwards as well, widening the space between them. He still wanted to see Grif’s back, wanted to confirmed what he thought he’d seen--

He couldn’t just rush in like he had. Not if he wanted Grif to actually let him see, to trust him enough to bare his back and give him the time needed to see through the layers of scars to the marks suffocating below.

Instead of pushing the issue, Tucker started peeling off his armor, dropping the pieces onto the floor in a messy heap. “Why the hell doesn’t the library always have the digital stuff ready to go?” he complained as he stripped, deliberately returning to the topic he’d broached when he’d arrived.

After a moment of uncertainty, Grif sighed and dropped onto his bed, tossing the teal helmet squarely at Tucker. “How the fuck should I know?” he grumbled.

“It just doesn’t make any fucking sense,” Tucker insisted. Once the armor plates were scattered on the ground, his hands started to undo the seals of his undersuit. Grif threw a shirt and a pair of pants at him. The green and tan fabric hit him in the chest, then fell to his feet. Sighing at the non-response, Tucker peeled off the undersuit and got dressed. Yeah, Grif was pissed.

After gnawing at the inside of his cheek for a moment, Tucker moved forward until he could collapse onto the bed next to Grif. After a moment of silence, he swung his feet up, turning so he was sitting cross-legged facing the other man. The rough texture of the cheap, mass-produced blanket scratched at his bare feet. Then, slowly and carefully, he reached a hand out towards Grif, offering a silent apology.

Grif stared back at him for a moment in confusion, his irritation bleeding away when he finally realized what Tucker was offering. And for several long moments, his brow furrowed as he thought.

Tucker focused on pushing down the flash of anger, of pity and righteous indignation that always flared in him every time he saw Grif weigh indulging in their soul bond. He hated, hated, _hated_ that his friend couldn’t just reach out and-- connect. That he had to _think_ about it, to decide if it was safe to indulge in soul-to-soul contact. More than anything, Tucker wanted to know who **_she_ ** was, the woman who had inflicted such awful, soul crushing damaged that Grif suffered under even to this day. He wanted to know who to blame.

Finally, Grif finished his mental ruminations and shifted closer, copying Tucker’s pose. He extended his arm slightly, offering up his upper arm to the teal soldier’s grasp.

Recognizing the silent permission, Tucker let his hand come to rest on his mark. As their skin connected, Grif shivered, eyes falling closed at the sensation of another soul touching his. Purposely focusing on keeping calm, Tucker reached out his with other hand and grabbed Grif’s, guiding it his elbow. And then relaxed as Grif’s soul came alive.

_I didn’t mean to rush you, was Tucker’s apology._

_A sensation of sighing, then acknowledgement emerged from Grif._

_Relieved, Tucker relaxed into the heady sensory experience that defined Grif’s soul. The sound of the surf rolling onto the beach was better than any white noise generator he’d ever heard. And with lunch around the corner, he could have sworn he could actually taste the sweet flavor of chocolate ice cream on his tongue. Grif’s memory-feeling-sensation of food was always strongest around mealtime._

_As Tucker indulged in some metaphysical beachside sunbathing, he could feel Grif’s soul brushing cautiously - and curiously - across his. It tickled, making him giggle softly inside, and then, amusement rolling off him in waves, the beachside vanished and Tucker suddenly found himself seeing-feeling-hearing Sister’s delight as Grif carried her, hand warm and strong on the back of her neck, her hand wrapped around his finger. His soul was poking at her, dancing along the edges of her senses and causing her to twitch and squeal at his merciless teasing._

_And then, just barely, at the faintest edges of the memory, Tucker felt the gnawing hunger that plagued both of them and the ache in Grif’s feet from walking for hours without rest. They were both way too fucking young to be homeless, he realized._

_Tucker’s laughter vanished immediately._

_Sensing the abrupt change in mood, Grif’s soul jerked back, confused and uncertain. The memory faded._

_Before Grif could withdraw completely, Tucker reached out and shared a memory of his own. Or rather, a series of them. Images and emotions flashed quickly, each from a moment of connection between himself and Washington. And each one carrying the same theme: loneliness; endurance; perseverance._

_It’s okay to want to connect with others, Tucker murmured. To not be alone. Wash is starting to understand that. You could help, he added. There’s an unfilled mark on his elbow that looks just like mine..._

_That was the key, Tucker realized. Even more than Wash, Grif protected people, helped them however he could. He’d protected Sister-- protected Kaikaina her whole life. He did what he could to protect them, too. With just a little push, surely he could be nudged into taking action..._

_Fortunately, Grif didn’t seem to notice that Tucker was trying to subtly manipulate him. Instead, his soul focused on the memories Tucker was showing him._

_I’ll think about it, he finally replied._

* * *

Wash fought back a yawn as he squeezed a meager amount of toothpaste onto his toothbrush. It had been a long day full of frustrations and problems. All he wanted right now was to crawl into bed with Tucker and just turn his brain off.

Just as he began to apply the brush to his teeth, Wash found himself staring at the reflection of Grif looming behind him in the mirror.

“You are a Goddamned pain the ass.” Grif looked highly affronted. Then, without another word, he reached out and clamped his hand onto the elbow of Wash’s raised arm.

_The taste of slightly off mint on his tongue was quickly overwhelmed by the taste of chocolate ice cream even as salt water sprayed his face. He felt a wave of irritation, annoyance, and deeply buried fondness sweep over him--_

Jerking his hand away, Grif spun around and stormed out of the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind him. Wash stared frozen after him, his mouth confused and disturbed by the lingering ghostly taste of chocolate mixing with the very real flavor of his terrible Federal Army toothpaste. Turning back to the mirror, Wash raised his elbow up a bit further. Sure enough, bright orange was now wrapped around the joint.

He removed the toothbrush from his mouth. Spat into the sink. “What the hell just happened?”


	7. Donut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donut. Why must you make my life so hard?

Grif hadn’t realized that being soul bonded with five different people could be so goddamned _stressful_.

Sure, Sarge continued to ignore and/or berate him like he always had. But for some reason, now that they were getting into regular fights with Charon Industry’s mercenaries, the minute they were alone somewhere, Sarge would latch onto his shoulder, filling his nose with the smell of gunpowder and barbeque, or grab his hand and clamp it down on the orange mark covering the older man’s wrist. And every now and then, he’d do both.

The contact never failed to unnerve him. He was still trying to get used to the intimate connections, the idea that he could just-- want that. And have it. And that no one would get mad at him or hurt him or… or worse. (He’d spent years imagining how much worse Jezzie’s abuse could have been. The different possibilities featured in a lot of his nightmares.)

If he thought about it, it did make a weird kind of sense that Sarge would want to check up on him. The grizzled colonel would probably fall apart without his favorite target for shooting practice around. At least, that’s what Grif told himself every time Sarge scanned him after a close call. But when Sarge grabbed his shoulder or started a soul loop, he couldn’t pretend there wasn’t some genuine affection and worry hidden under all that gruf. After years of just dealing with sarcasm and derision, he was struggling to reconcile the two dramatically different emotional states.

Meanwhile, Caboose continued to cling to the idea that Grif needed a personal escort to breakfast every morning and waited eagerly outside his door to clamp onto his arm while they headed down to the mess hall. It wasn’t easy walking around while being subjected to that torrential outpouring of pure emotion. Splitting his attention to feel both how _much_ Caboose loved him while simultaneously not walking into something could be tricky. And it was probably selfish of him, but Grif couldn’t deny that he’d come to enjoy that simple, uncomplicated affection.

Caboose had been injured on a mission two days earlier and was being held for observation in the hospital while he recovered from ramming himself into the side of a Warthog to save Smith and some other News soldiers. And like the fucking addict he was, Grif had been swinging by there before breakfast every morning to check on him and get his daily fix. He got up extra early, too, since the hospital was in the opposite direction from the mess hall and he didn’t want to show up late to a meal. He’d _never_ hear the end of it. But he knew nothing he ate would have sat right if he hadn’t gone by to check for himself that Caboose was going to be okay.

By contrast, his interactions with Carolina were completely random and usually late at night whenever she caught him sneaking into the mess hall or slipping out for a smoke. And very, very occasionally, she’d appear at his door and hide from the horrors unfolding on the battered planet, huddling beside him in bed, her hand on his chest, and his at her waist. Those weren’t the worst nights, all in all. God knows, he gotten used to Kai clinging to him for hours while she came down from some drug high or after a bad breakup. If he was the master of anything, it was lazing around while providing easy wordless comfort. (And it was fucking _hilarious_ watching her scramble out the window the next morning.)

Like Caboose, Tucker’s soul was one he was in daily contact with, and had been ever since the other soldier had spotted the mark Wash had left on him. There was never any pressure to reciprocate or any urgent reason to connect. No, Tucker just laughed and said the contact with his soul was the closest he’d come to having a proper vacation in years. The glowing way Tucker described the sensory experience was insanely embarrassing but… also nice. The list of people who’d ever spoken so openly and positively about him was so small… he kind of liked hearing it. But not too often.

Inevitably, though, these days being around Tucker meant being around Wash. And after the former Freelancer had wrapped his head around their shared soul marks _(“You can’t just-- bond and bolt, it’s supposed to be reciprocated!” “Are you kidding? You marked me while high, mostly asleep, and wanting to snuggle with Tucker. At least I had the decency to wait until we were both conscious.”)_ , he’d often lean in when he came looking for Tucker, letting his hand or shoulder rest against the battered mark between Grif’s shoulder blades.

Other times, Tucker would shove Wash down _on top_ of him while he was napping, insisting that Wash needed to dip his toes in the ocean water that lived in Grif’s memory, _“just for a few minutes, dude, promise”_. It hadn’t taken long to realize Tucker had gotten good at noticing when Wash was starting to stress out, the pain of the trauma Project Freelancer had inflicted on him surging up like some deep water monster. And hell, how could Grif refuse to connect under _those_ circumstances?

Of course, Tucker being Tucker would usually wheedle his way into everything once Grif had rolled onto his side, Wash’s arm wrapped around him to reach the spot on his back while he squeezed tight to the former Freelancer’s elbow. According to Tucker, they were _apparently_ too ‘emotionally constipated’ to be trusted to take care of each other. Which meant Tucker would squeeze in behind Wash and they’d turn into an awkward tangle of limbs and pressed cheeks, resulting in a three-way loop which was _super weird_ for him _and_ Wash, but Tucker was determined and, in the end, just better at managing the flow of _emotion-thought-sensation_ than they were. So it worked.

_(Grif wasn’t bad at soothing Wash’s discomfort but Tucker flowed through both their souls with stunning ease, darting directly to the source of his pain with pinpoint accuracy. So instead, Grif focused on tugging Wash closer to himself, sharing memories of surfing and playing on the beach while Tucker ran his metaphorical fingers across throbbing wounds, leaving a sensation of healing wherever he went. And sometimes, very rarely, they indulged in Wash’s memories of skateboarding on a world with three moons while Tucker’s soul curled protectively around Grif’s.)_

Basically, Grif suddenly had people. And _liked_ having people. But god _damn_ managing all that shit was _ridiculous._ Which meant he really didn’t have the time or energy to indulge Donut’s sudden need for company.

“Come on,” the petite soldier pleaded in a wheedling tone. “It’s just that, after lending a sympathetic ear to so many of the soldiers, I realized I just didn’t have the kind of _deep, intimate contact_ with you guys that I used to.” A small pout spread across Donut’s face, tugging slightly at the scars winding down the side of head. “I’ve already planned out some fun activities for us all to do together, and gotten myself loose and ready for whatever you guys can dish out!”

Dropping his spoon into his bowl with a soft clatter, Grif covered his face with his hands and groaned.

“But if you’d rather just pound on me for a few hours, that’s okay too! I’m okay with whatever you’re into.”

With an increasing amount of panic, Simmons shoved his breakfast at Grif and fumbled for his helmet. “Gee, I just remembered that I promised Doyle I’d update the inventory on our… uh, _food supply_ today. Sorry, guess I’ll have to miss out.”

Peeking through his fingers, Grif weighed the free meal against having to keep hanging around Donut. Then, with a soft sigh, he dropped his hands and snatched up the bowl. Donut _was_ a friend. Most of the time.

Simmons, meanwhile, had vanished from the table as thoroughly as activating a fully functional camouflage unit. Grif couldn’t help but envy him; if he hadn’t be loudly and publicly banned from the food stores shortly after they’d moved to Armonia, he’d be tagging along right now, not sitting here at Donut’s mercy.

The other soldier clucked disapprovingly. “He works way too hard,” Donut declared. “We need to help him find to relax, maybe help him rub all that tension out.”

Taking another bite, Grif eyed Donut for a moment, then gulped down a swallow of coffee, chasing down the mushy grain shit Simmons liked eating in the mornings. “Seriously, it’s just us, dude. I gotta know: you’re doing this on purpose, right?”

Blinking his mismatched eyes (one blue, one a fainter, milky blue-gray), Donut stared back at him with a confused expression. “Doing what on purpose? Being Red Team’s go-to guy for the best man-on-man moments? You’ve got me!” he finished with a grin.

Grif briefly tilted his mug at the other soldier. “I’m going to get you to admit it one of these days,” he growled. “It’ll happen.”

“Whatever you say, best buddy!” Donut watched as Grif polished off the remainder of Simmons’ breakfast mush. “Sooo, I was thinking that to start of our day of manly bonding, we should go visit Caboose in the hospital! Take him some flowers, maybe some fruit-” Voice breaking off, Donut clapped his hands together in excitement. “I should go get some oil! A deep tissue massage will definitely do the trick to give his day a happy ending!”

“Never, _ever_ , say those words again,” Grif hissed. A heavy sigh slipped past his lips. Raising a hand, Grif rubbed his brow, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. He had two options: (1) hang out with Donut all day and endure the endless stream of double-entendres, or (2) get roped into some BS inventory duty or sent off to train with Wash. Neither option was actually all that appealing. If Donut actually _knew_ what he was saying, well, that would be funny. But his apparent ignorance to the actual meaning behind his blithe statements just made it embarrassing for everybody. At the same time, though, training with Wash was _pretty_ awful.

Grif let out another sigh. God help him. He was going to be spending a lot of time with Donut today.

It took almost an hour to clear away the remains of breakfast, for Donut to settle on exactly what he wanted to bring Caboose, and to make the actual trek across Armonia to the hospital.

“Hello!” Caboose greeted them cheerfully, then winced as his welcome jostled his injuries. “Is it time to leave? I do not want to stay here any longer.”

“You’re not going anywhere until Dr. Grey says so,” Grif retorted shortly. His lips pressed briefly together as he took in the sling holding Caboose’s arm and shoulder still, the bruises on his face, and the slightly glassy look in his eyes. He’d seen it all just a few hours earlier but it was still felt like getting a punch in the gut seeing Caboose like this.

“But I don’t want to see the scary doctor lady again,” Caboose whined. He slumped back against the crisp white linens, pouting as he tugged morosely at the rough mustard-colored blanket draped over his legs.

“Aww, she’s just trying to make sure you get better.” Donut trotted around the bed, pausing long enough to dump his helmet and gauntlets in one of the visitor’s chairs set against the far wall. He then dug into one of the storage compartments at his hip. “Here, I brought you something!” he beamed, then produced a small black slab and a mess of tangled wires. “I know how boring it can be in the hospital and I thought you might like some music to listen to! Um, once I get the wires untangled, you’ll be ready to go.”

Shaking his head as Donut turned his attention to the mess of wires in his hands, Grif pushed away from the doorway and started peeling off his layers of armor, piling the pieces in the corner. Once he was free of armor from the waist up, Grif marched over to Caboose and lightly tapped his forehead. “What’s the rule?” he demanded.

“I should not try to break a Warthog with my head,” Caboose dutifully repeated, as he did each time Grif came to see him. He’d memorized the mantra but Grif had his doubts about whether or not the lesson had actually sunk in. A smile spread across the uninjured half of Caboose’s face and he reached out and grabbed Grif’s forearm. Sure enough, the emotions pouring out of him were wholly unrepentant, and were instead filled with love and appreciation for Grif’s visit.

Grif let his hand drop onto Caboose’s shoulder, squeezing slightly as he let his worry and frustration pour into the other man.

Giggling softly, Caboose wriggled on the bed, causing the metal frame to rattle. “Tickles,” he breathed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Grif could make out Donut’s lips pursing briefly and his cheeks round in a silent coo. Embarrassment flashed through him like lightning and only Caboose’s iron grip on his arm prevent him from jerking away.

Donut’s long, clever fingers finished untangling the headset wires and he gave the others a saucy wink as he stretched the cords out. “Now, don’t mind me,” he teased. “I can just slide in between my two favorite guys.” Matching words to action, Donut hip-checked Grif, nudging him back from the side of the bed slightly. Before he could move very far, Donut started to slip into the narrow opening.

“What the fuck, Donut?” Grif demanded as he felt the smaller soldier’s booty slide along his leg. Reaching out with his free hand, he seized Donut’s shoulder and started to push him back towards the foot of the bed.

Donut locked his legs, eyes going wide. “Oh!” he gasped.

For a moment, Grif stared at him in confusion. Then, he felt Caboose’s sudden moment of recognition, the memory of the moment Grif’s hand had fallen onto the unfilled mark on his shoulder flashing through both their minds.

The urge to run and hide was almost overwhelming, but with Caboose’s delight giving him courage, Grif stood firm.

Donut turned slowly, careful not to jostle Grif’s hand. Dropping the music player onto the bed, he stepped forward and wrapped an small arm around Grif’s thick middle. “Thank you,” he said softly, smiling up at him. Almost absently, his other hand came to rest on Grif’s chest. Underneath Grif’s black bodysuit, pink flared on Grif’s skin, tinting the white scar tissue.

_Connecting with Donut and Caboose at the same time was disorienting. The world seemed to take on a glittery hue, the lights in the hospital room gleaming brightly overhead. The faint sound of pop music echoed in his ears._

_Donut was so fucking_ **_happy_ ** _right now. His excitement that their marks, pink and orange, were finally filled in was so palpable Grif half expected a neon sign to pop up over the smaller soldier’s head. The moment he noticed Grif’s discomfort, though, Donut did his best to put a damper on his emotions. The sensation of sheepish apology was odd but unmistakable._

“Sorry,” Donut mumbled. He pressed his face into Grif’s chest, feeling the rapid pulse of the heart in that chest. “I promised myself I wouldn’t get emotional.” He sniffed, voice starting to wobble. “And I won’t. I really mean it-” Breaking off with a soft sob, Donut took a few deep breaths. “I’m just so _happy_.”

“That’s- that’s great,” Grif stuttered. “You can let go now. Seriously.”

“Aw, but this is the perfect time to really get deep inside each other!”

“Damn it, Donut!”

“Oh, fine.” Reluctantly, Donut pulled his hand away and took a step backwards, allowing Grif’s hand to fall. He wiped teary eyes with the back of his hand, sniffing hard.

“Now we’re all Best Friends!” Caboose exclaimed.

Swearing under his breath, Grif jerked away from the injured man and shuffled backwards. Crossing his arms, he tried to pretend his face wasn’t burning. “You’re both idiots,” he grumbled.

“Whatever you say, Best Friend,” Donut agreed, perfectly white and straight teeth flashing as he grinned. Turning back to Caboose, he grabbed the music player and passed the earpieces to Caboose so he could show him how it worked.

Leaning back against the wall, Grif shook his head slightly. Now he had _six_ assholes to take care of. Just his luck.


	8. Chorus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Harvey, I'm off this week. (Totally fine, btw. Just can't get in to work.) And since this story is ALMOST DONE, I'm determined to finish this week! Enjoy!

It was barely controlled chaos in the days following the end of the war with Charon Industries. Their frantic last-ditch fight to prevent planetary genocide had done more to unite the New Republic and Federal Armies than anything else over the past several months, but deep divisions remained. Kimball clung to her status as the defacto planetary ruler by her fingernails and seemed to be everywhere at once at Crash Site Bravo. When she wasn’t arguing with the UNSC over superluminal communications over sending aid and assistance, Kimball was checking on supplies, trying to organize committees and working groups to start building a functional government, and visiting the wounded.

When she finally returned to her makeshift office in the remains of the _Hand of Merope_ , she groaned when she found Grif sitting in front of her desk, in fatigues with his feet propped up on the surface while he worked his way through an MRE.

“Dinner time already?” she sighed as she approached her desk and pulled off her helmet.

Raising a dark eyebrow, Grif saluted her with his spoon. “Best time of the day,” he confirmed. “Chorus will survive long enough for you to eat. So dig in,” he finished, nodding towards the brown pouch sitting in front of her rickety desk chair.

Grif continued to eat as the leader of Chorus pulled off her heavy layers of armor. The quiet meals together were becoming a regular thing as they picked up the pieces after the battle on the _Staff of Charon_. There wasn’t a single one of the Reds and Blues who hadn’t come out of that battle injured, but as Grey booted them out of the infirmary one by one, they were doing all they could to help manage the situation.

Their immediate goal for now was to ensure everyone had food and shelter, received medical treatment, and to maintain the truce between the formerly warring factions. With Armonia still smoldering, they were struggling to maintain communication with remote military outposts and the scattered civilian hubs. The emergency broadcast Epsilon had sent out had ensured the Reds and Blues legacy planet wide as heroes. As such, there weren’t a lot of them hanging around the Site Bravo anymore -- Wash, Carolina, Sarge, and Simmons were all on the road helping bring order to the planet. Grif, Donut, and Caboose, meanwhile, had stayed behind to help Kimball and to keep an eye on Tucker, who was still in the infirmary.

Once she’d removed the final pieces of armor and arranged them on the floor, Kimball collapsed into her chair. Ripping into the MRE container, she dumped out the contents: a pouch with beef stew, a pouch with a side of corn, a pouch with crackers - a stream of pouches with the main course and various sides fell onto her desk into a messy pile. With practiced hands, Kimball dug out the pouch with a drink mix and ripped it open, pouring a fine, pinkish powder into the water canteen Grif passed over. As she briefly shook the canteen to dissolve the powder, Kimball blinked when she realized his gaze was lingering briefly on the aquamarine print on the palm of her hand.

“You know, before you and the others arrived, I honestly hadn’t made the connection,” she said softly, staring down at her hand and spreading her fingers wide. “The war took so much from everyone. There are probably more unfilled marks on this planet than on any other human world.”

Snorting, Grif shook his head. “That’s ironic. I think I’ve gotten more get filled in here than anywhere else. Sure feels that way.” Kimball gave him a curious look and he made small dismissive gesture. She smiled in rueful acknowledgement.

“According to the President of Erebus, the first support ship should arrive in a few days,” Kimball continued after a moment. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and looked Grif dead in the eyes. “Assuming Captain Tucker is in good enough health to be moved, there’s room on board for you and the others. We’ll be sorry to see you go, but a deal’s a deal.”

Freezing mid-bite, Grif stared back at her. “What are you talking about?”

“I promised you all that once the war was over, you’d be on the first ship off Chorus. And now,” Kimball nodded solemnly, “the war’s over. It’s time for you and the oth-”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What?”

Narrowing his eyes, Grif took a determined bite of his dinner. He didn’t want to explain the lowkey dread that Kimball’s words had triggered, to describe how much he’d come to care for some of the people of Chorus-- or how those people had started to make this world feel like- like he’d finally found somewhere he belonged. Where he mattered and people cared about him. So instead, he chewed and glared.

“I said, don’t worry about it. We’ll let you know if- _when_ \- we’re ready to leave. So just-- don’t worry about it.”

Kimball stared back at Grif is astonishment, then slowly, a smile crept across her face. Grif scowled, silently warning her off further questioning.

“Well, that will make things… much simpler,” she finally replied. After taking a sip of her now-flavored water, she started to sort through the meal pouches, tearing into them with renewed cheer. Once she’d downed several spoonfuls of stew, she held up her left hand and rotated it slowly. “You know, as glad as I am that Felix is gone, it does mean I’ll never for certain if this was him.”

Squinting, Grif leaned forward, then let out a low whistle when he spotted the shimmery outline wrapped around her hand. “Fuck, are you serious?”

“Yup. I remember when it came in.” Kimball stared intently at her hand, her deep brown eyes tracing the outlined mark. “I was eight years old. The UNSC had just installed its first puppet governor but all I cared about was all the new marks I was getting. Tucker’s appeared just a few days before this one.”

A wistful, sad smile crossed her face. “Years later, Felix showed up like a goddamned knight in shining armor and I- I couldn’t help but wonder. I hadn’t thought about my marks in years,” Kimball admitted. “There’d been so many deaths… it seemed pointless to dwell on what could be when we were fighting for our lives. But he was so-- charming. He played the part of the reluctant hero perfectly. Fooled us all into thinking he was just pretending not to care about us.”

“You never tried to find out for certain?” Grif asked, a wave of sympathy washing over him.

“No, he was always very careful to be fully armored at all times.” Sighing, Kimball shook her head. “He did ask once what color I left on people. Like he was wondering an unfilled mark of his own. I thought for certain that if we could just win this damned war…” her voice trailed off.

Grif let his eyes wander of the mark, taking in the arrangement of blunt fingers and a broad palm as he remembered the sleek, angular orange-accented armor Felix had worn... and the colors that had lingered so briefly on his legs as a child.

After a moment’s hesitation, Grif set his dinner to the side and pulled his legs off the table. Then, with a determined breath, he reached out and threaded his fingers through hers. As their palms met, her eyes went wide and orange flared on her hand.

A mixture of relief and anxiety flooded his veins as Kimball’s eyes went distant, her mind and soul focused on everything that was _him_ pouring into her. Finally, her gaze sharpened and the fingers that had reflexively clutched at his loosened their tight hold. Before he could react, she yanked her hand free and sprang to her feet, the chair smacking hard into the wall. Rushing around the desk, she almost tripped and stumbled directly into his lap. Fresh tears were streaming down her face even as her hand landed on his leg.

_She’d lost so many friends, so many soulmates. She’d been all alone for years and years before Tucker had shaken her hand--_

_Grif shivered slightly at the memory of her loneliness. He knew that feeling, recognized the pain of being cut-off from the rest of humanity, of always_ **_knowing_ ** _there was something about_ **_him/her/them_ ** _that had cursed them to live such a solitary life--_

_But once Tucker’s mark had exploded on her hand, there’d been Sarge and Carolina and Washington and Doyle. Madcap and deadly, foolish and annoying, but all a part of her, pieces she hadn’t even realized were missing--_

_They’re good at that, Grif reflected with a rueful air. They grow on you like fungus._

_They’re not all like fungus, Kimball teased, and then a memory of Carolina flared. Warmth, comfort, companionship, she was an island of sanity, a break from the horrors and stress unfolding around them-_

_Oh, god, don’t show me that! Carolina will literally kill me!_

_She’d overshared, OVERSHARED so much, Kimball realized, but even as Grif shrieked in silent protest he was laughing and relieved that the two women had found each other--_

Overcome with a rare fit of giggles, Kimball broke the connection and collapsed fully onto his lap. “You can’t tell her I showed you all that,” she gasped, shoulders shaking helplessly as she laughed.

“And I don’t want to die so there will be no talking about how you two spend your evenings,” Grif agreed as he snickered. He looped a friendly arm around her waist, keeping her balanced. “Not a goddamned word, I promise you.”

Still laughing, Kimball took a moment to admire the new orange mark wrapped around her hand and threaded between her fingers. Sniffing her suddenly clogged nose, she scrubbed at her wet face. “I am so glad this isn’t Felix,” she sighed. “God, the idea of walking around with him on me was just repugnant.”

“That would be insanely messed up,” Grif agreed. Then, giving her an arch look, he leaned back in his chair slightly. “You want to see something weird?” Reaching up, he grabbed the left sleeve of his shirt and pulled it up, exposing a deep, forest green mark. “This just showed up a few days ago. Donut got one yesterday. And Simmons woke up with the same color mark this morning. Freaky, right?”

“That color- you don’t think-” Kimball gasped, leaning forward to stare at the mark.

“That Locus just had enough of a mindfuck identity crisis that flipping on Felix somehow triggered new marks to appear? That’s what it looks like. Because how the fuck else did new marks appear on all of Red Team when we’re all _adults?_ ”

“That’s _insane._  I didn’t think that happened outside of movies.” Unable to resist, Kimball poked at the mark with a finger, half expecting the green to rub off onto her skin. Shaking her head, she slid off his lap and circled back around to her chair. As she picked up her spoon to eat, she paused and gave Grif a somber look. “If Locus shows himself on Chorus, we _will_ arrest him just like we did Hargrove.”

“No argument here,” Grif grunted, picking up his MRE while lifting his legs back up onto the desk. “But I doubt we’ll ever see him again.”

* * *

“I am so fucking tired of being in a fucking hospital,” Tucker grumbled as he stared up at the ceiling.

“Then stop doing dumb shit,” Grif countered from where he was slouched against the wall.

“It’s not my fault that Epsilon- that Epsilon-” Voice breaking off, Tucker turned his head away from Grif, staring at a random spot on the wall. Tucker had gone down with the Meta suit after the battle on the _Staff of Charon_ , his body completely overtaxed by the strain of fighting in the overpowered armor.

They’d discovered Epsilon’s farewell message after prying Tucker out of the suit. And once the aquamarine soldier had come-to, he’d been completely distraught. Somehow, Epsilon had managed to leave a personal message buried in Tucker’s implants, and his passing had the side effect of permanently burning the memory of the entire fight in Tucker’s mind -- including the moment their AI friend died. As a result of combination of the physical strain from the suit and the mental strain of Epsilon’s suicide, Wash, Carolina, and Dr. Grey had all insisted he remain under observation until they were certain there were no lingering side effects. It also gave them excuse to keep an eye on him as he began to the process of coming to terms with losing his best friend.

“Church will come back,” Caboose declared without looking up from the drawing he was working on. “Church always comes back because we love him and remember him and we are Best Friends.”

“Caboose,” Tucker sighed.

“If he had not been a computer person, we would have had the best Best Friend Marks,” Caboose insisted. Picking up his drawing, he held it up so the others could see. It was them, all the Reds and Blues, standing in a line with their armor covered in colorful handprints. At the very center was a figure drawn in light blue, with a print from each of the soldiers around it on its armor. A dark blue print sat directly over its heart. “When Church comes back, we’ll all have to work extra hard to remind him we’re Best Friends. Since he is a computer person, he can’t have Best Friend Marks and that means he doesn’t always remember who his Best Friends are.”

“It’s not like all the other times, Caboose.” When the younger man didn’t respond, Tucker groaned and scrubbed at his face with his hands. “Why don’t you make something for Carolina? I know she’s missing Church a lot, too.”

“That’s a good idea,” Caboose agreed. “You should have good ideas more often.” Reaching out, he rested his hand on Tucker’s leg.

Tucker’s eyes fluttered for a moment as Caboose’s emotions slammed into him; there were no halfway measures with the straightforward soldier. Some of the tension in his body seemed to relax and he reached out with his own hand and slotted it neatly over the green-blue mark on Caboose’s arm.

As the two members of Blue Team took a moment to comfort each other, Grif hesitated for a moment, then hurried out of the room. He didn’t want to intrude.

Rather than leave the infirmary and get roped into helping with paperwork or aiding Donut as he made arrangements for a giant fucking celebration, Grif hurried down the narrow, hastily repaired hallway. There was one patient he wanted to check up on.

The battered remains of the _Hand of Merope_ were doing a decent job of giving them temporary shelter and a place for the wounded to recover. The engineers and mechanics had straightened and smoothed out the twisted corridors, restored power to the stable sections, and created secured areas to lock up prisoners.

The section Grif spent the most time in, though, was the infirmary. And there was one soldier who was finally being permitted visitors.

“Matthews, lying down on the job like this is costing Gold Team some prime scavenging opportunities,” he declared as he marched into the ailing private’s room.

“Sorry, sir.” Matthews’ words were somewhat slurred, his voice tired. Despite his multiple injuries and the cocktail mixture Grey had prescribed for him, though, he did his best to smile when he saw his captain.

Grif turned to Bitters, who sat perched on a crate next to Matthews. “How’s he doing?”

“I’m great, sir-”

“No. You don’t get to answer,” Grif interjected, stalking up next to the bed.  “You clearly have something wrong in your head. There’s no other explanation for you ignoring everything I’ve taught you about avoiding trouble and jumping into a fist fight with one of Charon’s mercenaries. A mercenary who beat you _so bad_ your _kidneys_ shut down. Or we could talk about how you got shot enough times that the plasma burned _straight through your armor_.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Grif exhaled slowly through his mouth. On the bed, Matthews stared up at him sheepishly. Shifting his gaze back to Bitters, Grif repeated the question: “How is he?”

“The skin grafts are looking good, the rib fractures are healing, and Grey says he can get off hemodialysis once his piss stops looking like tea. So the same as yesterday.” Bitters looked almost as exhausted as Matthews but had no problem reeling off a complete medical summary. “If we were in Armonia, he’d be able to go home soon and just come in to have the burns checked every few days. But since Armonia’s fucked to shit and we’re camping in the wilderness, he gets to stay here under the nurse’s care until he’s no longer at risk for infection.”

“Such a goddamned troublemaker,” Grif sighed, absently nodding in approval at the report. Glancing around the converted storage room, he found another crate and kicked it over to the bed, then dropped down in relief. “Gets you out of work, though. Everything’s gone to hell. The only upside is that no one’s shooting at us anymore.”

“Thank you for coming to see me.” Matthew suddenly let out a big yawn. Because of his burns, Grey had him on the hard stuff and he spent more time asleep than awake. “Only had you and Bitters to talk to,” he mumbled. Each blink of his eyes was starting to take longer and longer as he started to drift off to sleep.

“The other lieutenants have stopped by but he’s been asleep each time,” Bitters explained in a low voice. “They made a ‘Thank you, get well soon' card for him. Which is nice considering he got hurt helping us take the mercs home base and all.” His lips twisted slightly and there was a hint of displeasure in his eyes.

“No one else has come to see him?”

“He’s not popular. No one’s been willing to cut him any slack considering he only just turned _sixteen_. And…” After a momentary hesitation, Bitters winced slightly. “He’s only got two marks. Assholes have been holding that against him. Like it fucking _means_ something.”

An unholy protective fury arose in Grif. ‘Assholes’ wasn’t strong enough. He’d spent most of his military career around people who thought he only had two marks. He was _fully aware_ of the stigma that caused. He knew _exactly_ what it was like to be shunned and cut off from everyone around you because they assumed you were gutter trash.

 _Goddamn them all_. Why the hell hadn’t Bitters mentioned this earlier?

Mindful of the heart rate monitor clipped to Matthews’ finger and the IV going into the back of his hand, Grif reached out and rested his hand on his underling’s wrist.

Matthews eyes snapped open.

“Fuck all the rest of them,” Grif growled. “You might be an obnoxious twerp sometimes but Gold Team’s got your back."

Before he could continue, Grif realized the heart rate monitor was beeping faster and faster, accelerating at a frantic pace. He stared at the machine, then at Matthews, sudden terror running through his veins when he saw tears streaming down his face.

Bitters lunged forward and clamped his hand over Grif’s, holding it in place as he started to jerk away. “Look!”

Grif shifted his gaze, then froze. Orange peeked out from under his fingers.

_Oh._

The door slammed open and a nurse burst into the room, his eyes wide.

“It’s fine, everything’s fine-” Grif began, but the nurse shoved him and Bitters back, breaking the connection.

With quick, confident motions, the nurse checked the multitude of wires and tubes connected to the soldier and skimmed his eyes over the equipment crowded around the head of the bed and hanging from the ceiling. Once he was confident everything was normal and Matthews heart rate had begun to slow, he turned to the two men behind him.

“New soul mark?” the nurse asked in exasperation.

Grif nodded.

“Congratulations. Wait until he’s off the opioids and can better regulate his emotional response before you explore the connection any further. Matthews?” he added, voice softening as he turned back to the private. “You’ll need to wait until you’re feeling better before you do anything more with your soulmarks, okay?”

Matthews raised his hand and stared at his wrist. He was still crying but the tears were starting to slow. “That’s-- that’s Captain Grif. My captain. He’s- I have his-”

“I know. It’s very exciting. But you need to rest,” the nurse explained. Gently reaching out, he guided Matthews’ hand back down onto the bed and carefully draped the sheet over it. The IV infusion tended to make the surrounding area cold.

“My captain,” Matthews repeated, sounding dumbstruck.

Lips pursing for a moment, the nurse glanced at Grif and Bitters. “I’ll be right back.” Disappearing for barely a minute, he returned to the room with a needle, which he used to add something to the IV solution. “Just something to help him fall back asleep. He needs rest,” the nurse added pointedly.

“We won’t disturb him,” Bitters quickly assured him.

“Good. Gentlemen.” With that the nurse swept out of the room.

Whatever drug the nurse had used worked quickly. Matthews was asleep in just a few minutes. While he drifted off, Grif and Bitters quietly rearranged their seats next to his bedside.

“He’s going to want to mark you as soon as possible,” Bitters finally commented after they’d sat for a while watching Matthews sleep. “It’s a big deal to him.”

Glancing over, Grif snorted at the faint blush that had appeared on Bitters’ face. “Yeah, well, he’s not allowed to even try until he doesn’t need machines to do the work his internal organs are supposed to be doing.”

“That’s fair.” As Grif continued to stare, a slightly nervous expression appeared on Bitter’s face. “Sir?”

“Are there any marks on you I should know about?” Grif demanded. This shit was getting ridiculous. “Because apparently I’m just handing them out these days.”

The blush from earlier deepened, spreading across Bitters’ face and turning the tips of his ears pink. Biting his lip, he sheepishly held out his left arm, angling it so the faint gleam of an unfilled mark could be easily spotted on his wrist.

Grif didn’t hesitate to grab it. As orange appeared on Bitters’ skin and his eyes went wide at the brush of Grif’s soul, he snagged Bitters’ other hand and clamped it down on his leg, mirroring the mark Kimball had left on his other leg the night before.

_Just for a moment, Grif was highly aware of how touchy Bitters was about his marks. Like Kimball, more of his soulmates were dead than alive. Forming this new connection frightened him and the younger soldier reflexively hunched in on himself, bracing for the possibly injury Grif could inflict on him. Thanks to Wash and Tucker, however, not to mention years taking care of his sister, Grif knew exactly how to calm and reassure his lieutenant. And here, in a place beyond words, he made sure Bitters knew exactly how proud he was of him, how much he cared and wanted to keep him safe._

After breaking the connection, Grif took a moment to wrap his arm around Bitters’ shoulders, offering silent comfort while the young man pulled himself back together. Pretending not to notice the tears soaking through his shirt, Grif waited for the shuddering breaths to ease off before fully pulling away.

“Let me know if anything changes with Matthews,” he ordered. “I’ll swing by again when I can.”

“Yes, sir.” Voice thick, Bitters sprang to his feet and offered a rare, genuinely heartfelt salute.

In a moment of equal solemnity, Grif responded in kind. Gold Team was his to protect, especially since Bitters and Matthews were all that were left. And that made them family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matthews. Precious baby. Sweet child. Made me sad and happy writing about you.
> 
> Big shout-out to ScriptMedic, who's Tumblr really helped me solidify exactly how Matthews was injured.


	9. Simmons

_Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam_

…

_Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam_

…

_BAM. BAM. BAM-_

“I swear to God, I will fucking murder you!” Grif snarled as he wrenched open the door to his and Simmons’ shared room. “It is almost four in the morning,” he growled at the now-cowering Palomo. “Are we under attack?”

“Um, no, sir.”

“Is someone threatening the planet?”

“Uh, no.”

“Has something happened to the mess hall?”

“... No?”

 _“Then it can wait.”_ With that final hiss, Grif slammed the door shut-- or rather, tried to. Palomo let out a pained yelp as the heavy metal door slammed into his foot.

“Captain Tucker said you needed to come to the Comms room right away, sir!” Palomo blurted out. “He said it’s urgent and you’d be upset if he didn’t call you.”

After a few tense, heart-pounding moments, Grif let up the pressure on the door and let it swing back open on its makeshift hinges. For a moment, he dreamed of having powered doors again that he could lock and seal. Not this workaround the engineers had come up with. Palomo, meanwhile, slumped against the wall, holding his wounded foot up in the air. He stared up at Grif with mournfully big eyes, looking hurt and betrayed.

“Fine. Go tell Tucker I’ll be there in a minute,” Grif groused and slammed the door shut.

As Palomo limped away, Grif flipped on the overhead light and started digging through the messy pile of laundry next to his bunk. A groan floated out from above his head.

“Grif, what the _hell_?” Dragging his pillow over his eyes, Simmons’s voice was muffled. Sleepy annoyance colored every syllable.

“Tucker needs to bitch about something.” With a soft _a-hah_ , Grif dragged out the pants and shirt he’d worn the day before. Tossing them on his bed, he continued to dig, this time looking for the cleanest pair of socks he could find.

“... _It’s almost four in the morning._ ”

_“I’m aware.”_

Grabbing his pants, Grif dragged them on over his boxers, then flopped down on the bed to pull on his socks, then his boots. Above him, Simmons lifted his pillow slightly and rolled onto his side, peering down at his closest friend.

As Grif bent over to lace up his boots, Simmons’s eyes traced the shift of powerful muscles under his thin undershirt. When the boots were done, Grif sat back up and dragged his hands through his hair, pulling the long, curly locks into a long, messy ponytail. Far above him, Simmons felt his mouth go dry as more of Grif’s tawny skin was revealed and those big hands combed confidently through the dark strands. Finally, as Grif dragged a shirt over his undershirt, Simmons forced himself to roll onto his back and shoved the pillow back under his head.

“Tell Tucker to wait until after breakfast to involve us in his different personal crises,” Simmons grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and hoping the flush on his face would be mistaken for irritation.

“He’s going to get an earful, believe me,” Grif agreed. With only a quick glance at the other man, Grif flipped the lights off and left the room.

In the darkness, Simmons lay still for several moments. Then, a short, aggravated scream ripped its way from his throat, barely muffled by the hands pressed against his mouth. _He couldn’t go on like this_.

* * *

Tucker beamed when Grif stalked up to him outside the Comms room, looking far more chipper and alert than he had any right to be considering the hour.

“What. The fuck.” Grif demanded.

Muffling a yawn, Kimball gave him a small nod. “A ship came into orbit almost an hour ago. We needed Captain Tucker to translate.”

“It’s a Sangheili ship,” Wash added. The former Freelancer was hanging back a bit from the others, hands shoved deep into his pockets and looking almost... nervous?

“It’s Junior’s ship!” Tucker corrected in a gleeful voice. “He saw our message and raised hell at the embassy until they agreed to send aid _and_ bring him here. Now that we’ve sorted out all the diplomatic bullshit and gotten the ship from Erebus to stop panicking, they’ve sent a shuttle down!”

“Awesome. Why I here?”

Grabbing his arm, Tucker spun Grif around and started dragging him down the hallway. “Because Junior’s not the only one on the ship!”

* * *

Sangheili Jesus (also known as Lavernius Tucker Junior) may only have been about four years old but was already nearly as tall as his… parent. And as the alien-human hybrid raced off the ship and grabbed Tucker, hefting him effortlessly into the air, it became crystal clear just how much faster he was growing and developing compared to pure-blooded humans.

“Dude, look at you! You’re so big now!” Tucker laughed, grinning down at his son. “Gonna be picking up the ladies in no time.”

With a soft, relieved warbling _blarg_ , Junior lowered his parent back onto the ground and grabbed his hand. Junior’s long digits and double-thumbs wrapped effortlessly around Tucker’s smaller hand and wrist - and perfectly covered the first non-human soulmark in recorded history. Tucker clung equally hard to Junior’s hand, easy concealing the teal mark on the alien hand.

On the ramp of the ship, Junior’s guardian (a relative of the alien they’d called Crunchbite) kept watch, his lower mandibles rubbing together thoughtfully. Before any proper introductions could be made, a human in yellow armor raced down the ramp, head jerking from side to side.

“Big bro! It’s really you! Dex!”

Seeing his sister’s yellow armor made Grif feel like a hand was squeezing his heart, causing it to pound harder and harder in his chest.

Sprinting up to him, Kai ripped her helmet off and a few loose strands of dark hair floated down around her face, the curls flattened and stretched out from the hours they’d been sealed away.

“What the hell are you doing hitching a ride on a Sangheili ship?!” Grif hollered. She was _here_ , she was _safe_ \-- What the hell was she _doing here_ getting off _that_ _ship?_

“I saw that message about you guys and Junior called offering me a ride once he had a ship lined up! He said they’d be passing near Blood Gulch and could stop and get me.”

“You gave an alien embassy _your number?”_

“No, I gave it to Junior last time I was on Earth for business.” Letting out a fierce growl, Kai dropped her helmet and lunged forward. “Bitch. Just shut up and hug me.”

Well. He couldn’t argue with that. Even if the hard planes of Kai’s armor were digging into his skin. Without hesitation, he returned the embrace, letting his hand drift up to cup the back of her neck as he pressed his forehead against hers.

After that, introductions proceeded at a fair pace. Despite his young age, Junior was articulate and dignified as he introduced the ship’s captain to Kimball. After a long moment of staring, Kimball solemnly extended her hand to the towering alien, who let out a soft _Warg_ as he shook it.

The wounds inflicted by decades of war were impossible to ignore. And yet, the very distance that had left Chorus abandoned and forgotten also meant the young colony world had been shielded from much of the fighting, with few of its citizens heading off-world to defend mankind. All in all, Chorus was as neutral a human planet could be concerning the aliens.

With Crunchbite’s relative overseeing the unloading of the supplies they’d brought from Earth, Kimball and the Sangheili captain headed towards a more private space, with Tucker and Junior tagging along to translate as they began a cautious discussion about the ancient alien temples that littered the planet’s surface.

Grif, meanwhile, grabbed his sister’s hand and tugged her away from the shuttle. “Come on, let’s find you a place to ditch the armor.”

The ever-shifting personnel stationed at their temporary base of operations at Crash Site Beta meant there were always new rooms opening up. And Kai lucked out because one of the free rooms was in the corridor that housed Blue Team. (Tucker and Wash’s most recent neighbor had been … _very eager_ to volunteer for the evaluation team headed to the ruins of Armonia. So far no one had lingered in that room for more than four days since Tucker had been released from the infirmary. There was a betting pool on who would manage to last a full week.)

Once they’d made their way to the room, Grif paused at the small terminal in the corner and sent a message to Simmons to update the housing records while Kai stripped off her heavy armor. Just as he was hitting the _Send_ button, she tackled him from behind, grabbing at his hand.

“I thought for certain you were dead,” Kai sobbed into the back of her brother’s neck. “You were in the news and the media called you a hero. Then your ship never reached Earth and none of the search teams found it.”

Twisting, Grif looped an arm around Kai’s shoulders and pulled her into his chest. Pressing her face into his shoulder, Kai squeezed tighter on his finger even as his hand returned to the orange mark on her neck.

They stood quiet for some time, just letting their minds drift into the soothing ocean current that had been their safe place growing up. No matter what their father or mother had done, no matter how hungry or scared they’d gotten living on the streets, they’d always had this. They’d always had each other.

Eventually, Grif felt his knees begin to protest. Sighing, he lifted his head from where it had fallen onto Kai’s and tugged her over to the bed. As soon as he was sitting, she crawled into his lap just like she always had when they were kids, cradled and protected from the rest of the world. Reaching out, she ran her fingertips over his forearm, tracing the distorted dark blue outline under the old web of scarring.

_You’re happier, she hummed to him. Warmer, less brittle. Not hiding under so many layers._

_A wave of embarrassment washed over him, but Kai let out a soft_ **_tsk_ ** _and pushed it back._

 _It’s a good thing, she insisted. You always took care of me. No matter what I did, though, I just made you worry. I’m_ **_glad_ ** _you’re more… whole. You deserve it. You’re_ **_worth it_** _._

“Do you have the full set?” Kai asked softly. Resting her cheek on his shoulder, she angled her head to peer up at him. There was a flash of anger as her eyes took in the new scars and worry lines on his face.

“Sort of. Um. Of the… the ones Jezzie…” His voice trailed off, eyes darted away to stare at the floor.

“If you have all those, and me…” Kai paused for a moment. “Then the only one left is the one on your back? The one she never found?” When Grif nodded, she pressed on. “Do you know whose it is?”

“Kai…”

“Because you always told me what color your marks were. Just in case.” Kai pushed herself away from Grif slightly and gave him an arch look. “And I remember that one. You said it was a dark red. And Caboose told me _allll_ about the different color armor everyone had back in Blood Gulch. There’s only one guy who fits what he was telling me.”

With a heavy sigh, Grif let his chin drop to his chest as he closed his eyes. “It’s not that simple.”

 _Liar_ , _Kai wordlessly shot back at him._

_It’s true, he countered._

“God, you’re being stupid,” Kai grumbled. With a soft huff, she slumped back against him and pulled him into a hug. “Probably ‘cause you’re exhausted. Go back to bed,” she ordered.

“Yeah, yeah.” Returning the hug, Grif let his head rest against her’s. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m here too. Now go get some sleep.”

* * *

Kai’s certainty that he could just… walk up to Simmons and mark him and it would be okay was still swirling through his head hours later as he headed out of the mess hall following a late breakfast. The others had already finished by the time he’d arrived so he’d ended up dining with Bitters and Matthews, who, while still battered and hollow-eyed, was thrilled that he was back to eating solid foods and that he’d had been given permission to take short walks every few hours.

The two soldiers had been quick to fill him in on the latest developments. Namely, that the Sangheili had brought enough human food and medicine to last for several _weeks_ , the Erebus cargo ship _Myrmidon_ had made some vague excuses before high-tailing it out of the system in terror, and that there were rumors an alien archeology team was on its way.

“Does this mean we’re going to be allies with the Sangheili?” Matthews’ eyes had been wide as he clutched his fork. The Great War was just an abstract concept for him, something he’d vaguely heard mention of from time to time growing up. As it was for most of the soldiers of Chorus.

“It’s way too early for that to be a thing,” Grif had grunted in reply. “That kind of shit takes months to work out.”

The battered remnants of Gold Team keep throwing around ideas for the rest of the meal, allowing Grif to finish eating in peace. He had a lot to think about.

When he left the mess hall, he paused long enough let Matthews lean into him, a hand on the light yellow mark on Grif’s leg while he briefly rested his hand on his underling’s wrist. Then, after ruffling Bitter’s carefully maintained undercut, he left to go find his sister so they could continue their conversation from earlier.

Kai wasn’t in the room he’d dropped her off in earlier that morning but there was enough shouting coming from next door that he felt pretty confident he knows where she was. But even knowing how madcap his sister could be didn’t prepare him for what he found in Tucker and Wash’s room.

Tucker was lying on the bed, half dressed in his undersuit howling with laughter. Kaikaina, clad just in her underwear, had Agent Washington, fearless survivor of Project Freelancer, slung over her shoulder while her free hand tugged determinedly at the suit wedged around his hips. The colorful marks dotting their bodies seemed to gleam in the brightly lit room.

“No. Stop. We have a mi- GET YOUR HAND OUT OF THERE! I said, we HAVE A MISSION today. This isn’t the time! I need to get my armor o~n” With his face flushed a deep red, Wash’s voice cracked as Kai stopped tearing at his undersuit and planted her hand on his ass. Judging by way he suddenly whimpered, there was a bright yellow handprint on that buttcheek.

“You can’t lie to me, _cop_ ,” Kai cackled. “Not when you haven’t bothered moving your hand off the mark on my back. _I know everything.”_

Kai swung around and started towards the bed, which, coincidentally, brought Wash face to face with Grif, who was now leaning against the wall watching the proceedings in horrified amusement.

“Grif! Oh god.”

“That’s right. I’m Kaikaina Grif and I’m here to-”

Suddenly kicking his legs, Wash started trying to escape (which apparently he hadn’t really been trying to do before) and continued in a somewhat panicked voice. “NO. Grif. Your brother, Grif.”

“Psh, what about him?” With a sudden heft, Kai dumped Wash down on the bed next to Tucker.

“I’m _right_ here.”

Kai spun around, startled by the sudden sound of her brother’s voice. Then, she beamed. “Look! I’ve got a matched set of hotties! With matching ass marks! From me!”

“You have been here less than twelve hours. Why the _fuck_ are you already molesting people?”

“It’s not molesting if I’ve got consent!”

“How was that consent?!”

As the siblings started to argue, Wash rolled off the other side of the bed (with minimal groping from Tucker) and stood back up, pulling his undersuit back on as quickly as he could given his… state. Then, he dragged Tucker off the bed and shoved him towards his armor.

“Grif, it’s fine. Everything’s fine.” Breaking into the argument, Wash looked back and forth between Grif and Kai. His face was so red, Grif half expected Sarge to burst through the walls screaming about him stealing from the Red Army. “We’ll work … um … this out. After our mission.”

“Speaking of,” Tucker interjected, wriggling his eyebrows at Kai. “You should come with. We’re going to activate the _fuck_ out of the Temple of Procreation.”

Clasping her hands together, Kai let out a soft squeal. “That sounds _so hot.”_

“We’re just using it to affect the planet’s _livestock_ ,” Wash hurried to add as he continued pulling on his armor. “That’s all. Nothing else.”

“But do you want it to _be_ something else?” Grinning, Kai spread her arms wide. “Come on, it’s like that slogan we used during the last corporate retreat-slash-orgy: ‘There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.’ We should absolutely not be afraid to get down and dirty.”

Tucker nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, what she- wait, corporate retreat? Orgy? What?”

“It doesn’t matter! Just get dressed!” Wash screeched.

“Welp, nice to see the Blue Team is up to it’s usual insanity,” Grif sighed. “Kai, go put your clothes on. Tucker, keep it in your pants. Wash-” Here Grif paused, eyes narrowing. “We are going to talk about this later.”

“Why are you even here, dude?” Tucker’s voice was curious as he slotted his pauldrons into place.

Grif shook his head. “I _was_ going to talk with my sister but that’s clearly not going to happen while she’s in _this_ mood.”

“Psh, I’m always ready to talk,” Kai protested, planting her hands on her hips.

“I’m not talking to you while you’re half naked,” Grif shot back, shaking his head. “Just… put your armor on and go on Tucker and Wash’s _make-the-animals-fuck_ mission. We can talk when you get back.”

Grif made his escape after dragging Kai into the room next door to fetch her armor. After that, well, it was a Blue Team problem. And Kai had always been very happy to be on Blue Team. She had the marks to match, after all.

Not knowing what else to do and with plenty still to think about, Grif sighed and decided to take a nap. Maybe everything would be clearer after he’d slept. As he left Blue Team behind, he headed towards one of the more remote storage rooms. The space he shared with Simmons was relatively close to the main hub of activity in the _Hand of Merope_ and, well, it was the space he shared with Simmons. Just being in there around him and his things… everything got so muddled.

No, the storage room was a better choice. Especially this one. Glancing up and down the corridor, Grif palmed the keypad and the door flew open with a soft groan. Supplies were tight enough that all the storeroom doors were fully powered and automated so their contents could be better secured against theft or misuse. And as one of the heroes of Chorus, Grif had full access. (Rather, he had full access to all the storage rooms that _didn’t_ contain food. The people of Chorus were grateful, not idiots.)

Once inside, Grif wove his way through the mini maze of shelves bolted to the floor until he reached the furthest corner. He paused briefly, stooping over one of the shelves and retrieved the blanket and pillow he’d hidden amongst the boxes, and stretched out on the hard metal floor. He’d slept worse places.

Closing his eyes, Grif let his mind drift. Inevitably, it returned to Simmons and the unfilled mark on his back. It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to be with Simmons. It was just…

Exposing the mark would mean… exposing _everything_. Every bit of himself, the good and the bad. And he was made up of more bad than good, after all. He’d had the kind of shitty childhood that made conversations awkward at best. His military career was a joke. Even before Project Freelancer, his most notable achievement was surviving a hellish situation no one else had. And what he’d had to do to achieve that... It still gave him nightmares. There hadn’t been a single night in Blood Gulch he’d managed to sleep all the way through and the memories still returned to plague him on a regular basis.

Besides, there was no way Simmons wanted him. Simmons was smart and funny and handsome, with strong features, red hair, and freckles Grif just wanted to spend hours counting. He was a _cyborg,_ which was just _cool_ , and the _reason_ he’d become a cyborg (saving Grif’s useless life) just made him even cooler.

What did Grif have to offer? He could be kind of funny but was really more of a jerk. He was fat and a pig when it came to food. Panic started niggling at his brain when things started getting tense or if it looked like supplies were getting low and he just-- couldn’t make it stop without finding _something_ to eat and hoard away.

No one would ever call him handsome, not with just the layers of scarring all over. His hair was okay? It was like Kai’s and people had always complimented it… but he did shed everywhere and it clogged up the shower drain, which always made Simmons yell at him.

The worst part of offering himself to Simmons would be the soulmarks. No one, not even Kai had seen his marks now that they’d somehow been filled. No one had seen how much of a physical wreck he was.

Caboose’s blue could be seen and actually looked vaguely like a hand despite the scar tissue sitting on it. Above it, however, the aquamarine of Tucker’s hand was splotchy at best; there were extra layers of scarring on both his arms where he’d lost pieces of his old UNSC Army Battle Dress Armor. Sarge’s mark on his shoulder was in poor shape and thanks to the bright red color, he just looked like he was bleeding.

On his chest, Carolina’s mark was completely obscured (he’d never even let her see it) while Donut’s had just tinted the scar tissue to a deep shade of pink. The gray on his back, by contrast, was much clearer; Jezzie had been so far gone on drugs and alcohol by that point that her final few attacks had been much sloppier than most of the others. It was actually possible to _see_ the definition of some of Wash’s fingers on the skin between his shoulder blades.

The marks he’d gotten from the people of Chorus should have stood out against his dark skin. But instead, there were half-hearted glimpses of color and some random bits of definition, but not much more.

Grif didn’t hate his marks anymore, not really, but… he knew they weren’t _right_. It was a miracle that whatever biology or magic governed them meant they all still worked but they were supposed to be bright and- and happy and a sign to everyone around that he was _worth_ something...

The number of the marks didn’t matter; Matthews was a good person, just nervous and overeager and had spent most of his life expecting a painful death. Hell, he probably should have _had_ more marks than he did - the warring factions here on Chorus hadn’t always been as careful about avoiding the civilian population had they should have been.

But maybe the state of the marks mattered? Was it something about _him_ that had made Jezzie… Was there something about his character or personality that meant he’d deserved…

...

On the other hand, maybe none it mattered. He sure as hell didn’t know.

No matter what Kai thought, it wasn’t simple. Even if he went up to Simmons and, by some _miracle_ , wasn’t immediately rejected out of hand, Simmons deserved the best. He deserved someone who didn’t have panic attacks about starving to death and nightmares that kept him from being there for Simmons when _he_ was having a nightmare. Simmons deserved to be with someone who wasn’t a wreck, someone he could be seen with in public that wouldn’t make people talk and speculate about how bad a partner he’d chosen. Because even if he _did_ have a lot of soulmarks, it didn’t _look_ like he did and… and looks mattered. Even when they shouldn’t.

With a new feeling of misery spreading through him, Grif rolled onto his side, curling up on himself as he tugged the blanket closer. He didn’t deserve Simmons. And that was that.

* * *

 Simmons hadn’t been able to fall back asleep after Grif left to go find Tucker. Instead, he lay still in his cot, staring up into the darkness. Eventually (around 5 am or so), he sighed and went ahead and got up. If he was going to be awake, he may as well get something accomplished.

The mess hall was quiet that early in the morning, giving him plenty of time to sit and eat while he browsed through the digital messages that had arrived during the night. And when he finally got to the small office he’d been assigned, the very first thing he did was add Kaikaina Grif to their system - including a room assignment, rations allowance, and full access to their supplies and specialized materials. (Well, everything but the medical supplies. He remembered how she’d occasionally raid the medkits back in Blood Gulch chasing some way to get high.)

And then… he just sat. Lost and uncertain what to do next. He’d done everything he could for Kaikaina. And having her back, even if she didn’t stay for long, was good. Grif had missed her, had worried about her. Having her here would make him happy, relieve him of some of the stress he carried in his shoulders.

With a heavy sigh, Simmons pushed away the stack of datapads on his desk and leaned back in his chair, a mug of hot tea cradled in his hands. For the moment, he didn’t worry about  rebuilding and consolidating the troop data they’d lost in the destruction of Armonia. Updating their supply lists and future projections didn’t matter either.

What mattered right now was Grif.

They’d survived _so much_ together, most recently the fight on the _Staff of Charon,_ which was easily the worst fight they’d ever been in. There’d been no heartfelt confessions or tender moments, not with the enemy literally cutting through the door to get to them and kill them. Instead, they’d stood side by side and shared a single look before facing down their likely doom.

Against all odds, they survived. Most of them, anyways. Epsilon had killed himself to give them a chance. And with that extra edge, they’d made it through the fight with only relatively minor injuries, especially when compared to what so many of the soldiers of Chorus were suffering from.

So now what? They were helping Kimball as best they could. They visited civilian population centers to reassure everyone that the war was _over_ and that they could finally rebuild. They fought the scattered remnants of Charon’s mercenaries hiding in the jungle. They went on supply runs raiding old storage depots. They talked sometimes about going on vacation for a while once the food situation had stabilized, about finding some remote outpost somewhere to just sit and relax and heal from everything they’d gone through.

But it was still so uncertain. That much-discussed vacation continued to hover in the far-off future and they were never quite ready to reach out and grasp it. When Tucker had first suggested taking a break, Simmons had decided _There, I’ll talk to Grif there about everything_. Only, as their vacation kept getting pushed further and further away, so to did that discussion he’d promised himself to have with Grif.

Honestly, after moments like this morning where Grif was up and moving and sleepy and relaxed… it was like watching a cat wake up from a nap, looking warm and adorable but also hinting at the deadly power lurking in its body. He’d lived with Grif in close quarters for years but this was the first time he’d seemed really settled and comfortable with himself. A lot of the heaviness and tension that he’d carried for years was finally starting to uncoil. And… he wanted to help with that, to be able to ease that heavy burden Grif had assigned himself. To help him unwind and not just avoid work and responsibility.

Most of all, he wanted to feel Grif’s hand his hip, big and warm and flooding the mark there with orange. He wanted to have the chance to explore Grif and find _his_ mark. He wanted that soul-to-soul contact where he didn’t have to worry about his brain stuttering or locking up in a panic. There he’d be able to share all the… the feelings, emotions, and half-formed words that were so tangled up inside himself without having to worry about getting it wrong. He wasn’t Tucker or Donut, couldn’t weave his way through someone’s soul like a figure skater on ice, but he wasn’t terrible at it. And Grif… there were times Simmons wasn’t sure if he realized he deserved to know and hear and _feel_ all the good things people thought about him.

After sitting quietly for a while, sipping his slowly cooling herbal tea, Simmons took a deep breath and set his mug down. The perfect moment would never come. Even if they went on vacation, there’d always be something going on that he could use as an excuse to avoid talking to Grif. So, for once in his life, he’d charge in, no plan, no pre-scripted speech.

Grif was worth it.

* * *

 It took some time to track Grif down, especially since Simmons was determined to avoid getting entangled in anything else going on right now. And there was plenty happening, what with the Sangheili delegation on-site. But manage it, he did.

Grif hadn’t been assigned an office like Simmons had, nor was he doing supply work like Donut or Sarge. No, the other Captain took on whatever oddball tasks came up that needed adult supervision in between his own self-assigned duties. That sometimes meant driving out to negotiate with a civilian outpost for supplies, other times it was just helping to keep the peace between the former News and Fed troops. They were surrounded by teenagers, after all, and it was easy for emotions to run hot. Most often, though, Grif checked in on people. He made regular visits to see the wounded (claiming he was avoiding some assignment or another), made sure Tucker and Kimball were eating, and kept an eye on Caboose as time went on and “Church” didn’t come back.

Simmons did a quick pass through the infirmary and mess hall, then checked the duty roster to see who amongst the Reds and Blues were on-site today. Blue Team (plus Kai, minus Caboose) were on a mission to visit one of the alien temples. Sarge had appropriated Caboose to help him and Donut go through the supplies Junior’s ship had brought them. Bitters and the other lieutenants were busy with the alien delegation. Matthews, meanwhile, was in physical therapy. All put together, Simmons assumed Grif was probably holed up somewhere remote to avoid the fuss and hubbub.

It didn’t take long to start searching the more remote storage rooms and unused offices in the _Hand of Merope_. And when he pass down a warped corridor and keyed open one of the more battered store rooms, he knew he’d found him.

Stepping into the small room, Simmons took a deep breath, then keyed the door lock behind him, adding a special passcode only he would know and setting it to only start working an hour from now. This way, Grif couldn’t run away from the conversation. And neither could he.

The very real snores he’d heard when he’d opened the door had changed into Grif’s fake snores. Not that he’d ever let on that he could tell the difference. With a dry mouth and a vague feeling of nausea churning in his gut, Simmons forced his twitchy muscles to work and made his way over to the corner Grif was stretched out in.

“H-hey,” Simmons greeted Grif once he’d reached him.

With a soft groan and a fake sleepy grumble, Grif rolled onto his back and glared up.

“So Blue Team should be reaching that Temple soon,” Simmons blurted out. Staring down at Grif, he suddenly realized he’d made a _horrible_ mistake. He should have take some time to write out what to say or- or- or just having something written to _give_ to Grif because this wasn’t going to work, this was going to be a completely _failure_ -

“You’re assuming they left on time,” Grif replied after a moment. With a curious look on his face, he pushed himself upright and shifted to rest his back against the wall.

Realizing his was rubbing his hands down his pants’ legs, Simmons took the silent invitation and dropped down to sit next to Grif.

Grif waited a few moments for a response. When none came, he pushed on. “Kai went with them. She apparently didn’t waste any time marking Wash and getting him to mark her.” Snorting, he shook his head. “I walked in on her in full-on grope-mode. Tucker was laughing like a hyena and Wash really wasn’t trying as hard as he could have to get her to let go. So that’s a fresh little bit of hell we’re going to have to deal with.”

“She just- that’s really fast,” Simmons blurted out.

“That’s Kai for you.”

His heart was felt like it was about to leap up his throat and make him vomit it all over. That- that had to be a malfunction, it wasn’t an organic organ anymore- Was it just him or was it getting really warm in here?

“Why won’t you mark me?” The words erupted before he could stop them. Beside him, Grif went rigid. Without thinking, Simmons pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He very deliberately didn’t look over.

For a long, heart pounding moment, Grif didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to _breath_. Finally: “Simmons- that- you-”

“It’s just that you marked Donut and Tucker and Kimball and- and you even marked _Matthews,_ he brings it up anytime someone _talks_ to him.” An awful pressure was starting to build up in his eyes. “I’ve known you longer than _any_ of them, longer than anyone but- but Kai and I just don’t understand why- why you don’t think I matter as much as them-” His voice cracked on the last few words as he spilled the thoughts he’d worked so hard for so long to banish out of his head.

It was _definitely_ too warm in here. And- and he was malfunctioning and overheated, that’s why his face was so hot and why he could feel tears pricking at his organic eye-

“Shouldn’t have said that,” Simmons rasped. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I know I’m not-”

“What the hell are you saying?” Grif sounded horrified and Simmons let himself take a peek, just a glance, over at the other man. Grif- he looked like someone had _slapped_ him, like he’d been totally thrown for a loop-

Rocking up onto his knees, Grif grabbed his face and forced him to look over, his brow drawn together as he glared with palpable heat. “What. The fuck. Simmons.”

Embarrassed, Simmons reached up and battered away Grif’s hands. “It’s just… you have more marks than I do so… so I has to be something about me, right? I know the number matters.”

“That is _bullshit_ ,” Grif snarled. He didn’t grab at Simmons again, instead leaning forward to loom over him. “The number doesn’t mean a damned thing. You really think after meeting people like Matthews and Jensen who only have a few that they’re somehow _bad people_ ? News flash, dumbass, humanity spread itself out amongst the stars and only just ended a war that killed trillions. That affects _everything_. People who should have had more soulmates don’t because a lot those people _died_. And then there’s people like Locus who got so _twisted_ and broken by the war that they didn’t get all their marks until decades after they should have had them all.

“There is _nothing_ wrong with you, Simmons. And whoever the fuck told you there was deserves a major _ass-kicking_ . The number of marks you have doesn’t mean _shit_. You could have zero marks you’d still be the man you are _right now_. You’re one of the heroes of Chorus and a Captain in the New Republic Army. You’re _brilliant_ and clever, you just need to believe in yourself more. You don’t need Sarge’s approval or Doyle’s or Kimball’s. You’re already better and greater than _any_ of them.”

He didn’t know which of them moved first or if they somehow moved at the same time but suddenly Simmons hands were tangled into Grif’s hair as their lips came together. The simple contact sent a current of electricity straight through him and down his spine. Dimly, Simmons felt Grif’s hand cradle the back of his head, nudging and adjusting the angle- and it was _so much better_. How could it be better?

They came apart for a brief moment and Simmons suddenly remembered to breath, gasping for air before pulling Grif close once more.

This time, Grif’s mouth did more than just press hard. His lips moved, mouth opening enough so he could nip at Simmons’ lower lip. Moaning, Simmons felt his spine curving as Grif pulled him closer. Then, with an arm wrapped securely around his waist, Grif pushed away from the wall and eased them both down to the floor.

Relieved from the awkward angle from before, Simmons tugged at Grif, wanting, _needing_ him closer, to _feel_ his weight on top of him-

As Grif eased a leg down between his, Simmons ran his hands down Grif’s shoulders while he tried to mimic and return every movement and nuance in their heated kiss. As his hands, organic and metal, ran over Grif’s arms, the man hovering above him shuddered and moaned against him. Emboldened, Simmons let his hands continue to wander. Grif, meanwhile, shifted his weight onto one of his arms and let his other hand trail down his side.

Just as Grif’s hands were sliding down his waist, something flickered in the back of his mind - his hip, he needed Grif’s to touch his hip - and as Grif’s hand came to rest on the unfilled mark, Simmons’ hand froze on Grif’s lower back.

 _He was so wrapped up in Simmons that he didn’t even notice at first how the touch had changed, but as the smell of saltwater hit his nose he_ **_knew_** _. The more logical part of his brain took over briefly, helping to ease Grif down onto his side while Simmons rolled over and pressed close._

 _This moment- this contact- It was so much_ **_more_ ** _than anything he’d ever felt. He was melding with Grif, almost becoming him. And he knew Grif was going through the same thing._

 _The worries of the world around them melted away. Simmons could see every bit of pain Grif carried, could see how_ **_long_ ** _he’d carried it. The layers of shame and guilt, the certainty that he was broken and wrong, that he was only here to take care of other people, people he didn’t think could ever care about him the same way._

 _And that was_ **_wrong_** _. Grif seemed to curl in on himself, trying to hide, but Simmons just wrapped himself around him. Couldn’t he see? Through Simmons’ eyes, if not his own? Because while none of the Reds and Blues really knew how to communicate or share genuine moments of emotional honesty, it was no mistaking how much they noticed what Grif did for them, how much they appreciate his concern or love for them. And to Simmons especially, life wouldn’t be worth it without him there to make him laugh or snark at Sarge, and to ground them all in the real world._

_Most of all, Simmons focused on sharing with Grif just how deeply he loved him. He’d always struggled with the words, but here- here they were beyond his broken efforts to describe his feelings._

_Grif...stirred. And Simmons found himself wrapped up in just as strong a wave of emotion, an endless outpouring of pure, selfless love._

_Simmons felt hot sand scrape against his back as Grif kissed him. Water lapped at their feet as they lay together on the beach. And when they were tired, Simmons knew they could get up and walk to his grandparents old cabin in the mountains that lay just a few feet away - because this realm beyond the natural world was one for them to shape however they wished and he wanted to take Grif on walks through the woods and show him the waterfalls and caves he used to escape to growing up._

_He knew they’d eventually break apart and that all this would slip away until next time. And they’d be back to stumbling over each other and being embarrassed by their own feelings. But that was okay, because that was as much them as this world. They’d always remember this when they were apart. They’d remember how well they fit together and the joy they both found in being offered the kind of love and intimacy neither had thought they’d ever get to have._

_More than anything, Simmons was so grateful to the marks that dotted their flesh. Because for however many they had, despite the pain they’d suffered because of them, it had brought them together in a way that was impossible to deny or ignore._

_It was magic._

* * *

Hours later, Grif and Simmons were wrapped up together again in the safety and privacy of their room. It had been a long, emotional day and Grif didn’t want to do anything that might disturb Simmons.

He still couldn’t believe everything that had happened but how could he deny it? Not when Simmons was curled up next to him in bed. Not when they were both sore and marked up from everything that had happened. (Note to self: murder all of Blue Team. Assholes couldn’t be trusted to carry out a simple mission without screwing it up.)

Propping himself up on his arm, Grif reached up and ran light fingers through Simmons’s red hair. He’d been wrong. About a lot of things, it turned out. He wasn’t broken. He could have friends and soulmates all his own and… it was okay. Most importantly, he _could_ have Simmons. Because Simmons wanted him and rebutted whatever protests or arguments he’d tried to make. The only cracks in Simmons’ words and the non-words spoken by the soul were the ones tied to Simmons’ own battered sense of self-worth. And those were so clearly wrong, how could he do anything but correct them?

Simmons hadn’t even been repulsed or put off by his scars or the extra weight he carried. If anything, he’d given every indication that he was wholly in favor of Grif’s physical appearance in addition to everything else. Instead, he’d been far more self-conscious about his own looks and cybernetic parts.

The real takeaway, Grif reflected ruefully, was that he and Simmons were a matched pair, differing only in the specific expression of what were truly very similar issues.

Pausing long enough to confirm Simmons was still asleep, Grif leaned over and pressed a soft kiss against his temple, then stretched back out on the bed, making sure to drape his arm over Simmons’ waist.

As he drifted off to sleep, he remembered the musings of Simmons’ mind earlier that day. The marks truly were magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been an amazing story to write and I'm so happy you all have been so willing to explore it with me. thank you so much for reading.


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